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A  SHEAF  OF  POEMS 


.YARD  TAYLOR 

& 
ULIAN  BAYARD  TAYLOR  KILIANI 


THE  LIBRARY  , 
OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IN  MEMORY  OF 


Professor  Aram   Torosslai 
1884-1941 


A 
SHEAF  OF  POEMS 


Trnnslatirjns 


BY 


BAYARD  TAYLOR 

AND 

LILIAN   BaWARD  TAYLOR  KILIANI 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE   GORHAM    PRESS 
I9II 


Copyright,  1911,  by  Richard  G.  Badger 
All  Rights  Reserved 


The  Qorham  press,  Boston,  U.  s.  a. 


GiFT 


TTMGo 


FOREWORD 

In  this  volume  the  various  minor  translations  of 
Bayard  Taylur  have  been  collected  for  the  first 
time.  To  them  have  been  added  a  number  of  poems 
of  different  authors,  translated  by  Bayard  Taylor's 
daughter.  As  the  latter  has  followed  the  preceprs 
of  her  father  in  reproducing  the  poems  in  their 
original  meters,  it  seems  fitting  to  intersperse  her 
translations  with  those  of  her  father,  so  as  to  ar- 
range them  all  as  a  whole.  Those  translations 
which  are  the  product  of  Mrs.  Kiliani  are  desig- 
nated by  her  initials:     L.  B.  T.  K. 

Some  of  the  poems  translated  by  Bayard  Taylor 
have  appeared  in  early  editions  of  his  Poems.  A 
few  have  been  published  here  and  there  during  his 
life-time.  Most  of  them,  however,  have  been  col- 
lected from  his  prose  volumes,  and  principally  from 
"Studies  in  German  Literature,"  and  "Critical  Es- 
says and  Literary  Notes,"  a  volume  issued  after 
the  author's  death  (1880),  and  now  out  of  print. 


17G 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

Page. 
Poems  by  Wolfgang  von  Gofthe. 

The  Shepherd's  Lament i  i 

The  Song  of   AL'gnon 1 1 

Hartz-Journey  in  Winter 12 

Kpilogue   to   Schiller's   Song  of   the    HeH  .  .  .  15 

l^imits   of    Humanity i5 

Prometheus     it) 

Kncouragenient    18 

Nearness  of  the  Beloved 19 

Musagetes    19 

The  God  and  the  Bayadere 21 

The  Apprentice  at  iVIagic 24 

Llf-King    27 

The  Dance  of  the  Dead 28 

Poems  by  Frederick  von  Schiller. 

A  Group  in  Tartarus 33 

Elysium    33 

The  First  Scene  of  Wilhelm  Tell 35 

The  Count  of  Habsburg 36 

1  he  Diver   39 

The  P>ast  of  Eleusis 44 

The  Glove 50 

Poems  by  Various  German  Authors. 
He  Came    to     Meet     Me.       By     Frederick 

Riickert    55 

Barbarossa.     By  Frederick   Riickert 55 

The  Mountain  Boy.     By  Ludwig  Uhland .  56 

The  Three  Songs.     By  Ludwig  Uhland.  ...  57 

The  Garden  of  Roses.   By  Ludwig  LIhland.  58 

Bertram  de   Born.      By   Ludwig   Uhland...  60 

The  Castle  by  the  Sea.     By  Ludwig  Uhland.  b2 

5 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

Page. 

Disappointment.     By    Joseph    von    Eichen- 

dorf    63 

The  Poet's  Fate.    By  Joseph  von  Eichendorf  64 

The  Cross-ways.  By  Joseph  von  Eichendorf.  64 

Longing.     By  Joseph  von  Eichendorf 64 

Pergolese.     By  Emanuel  Geibel 65 

Golden  Bridges.     By  Emanuel  Geibel 67 

Song.     By  Emanuel  Geibel 67 

Two  Kings.     By  Emanuel  Geibel 68 

Prince  Eugene.     By  Ferdinand  Freiligrath.  68 

Song.     By  Heinrich  Heine 70 

To  the  Ganges.     By  Heinrich  Heine 70 

The  Grenadiers.     By  Heinrich  Heine 71 

The  Asra.     By  Heinrich  Heine 72 

A  Song.     By  Martin  Greif 73 

The  Women  of  Weinsperg.     By  Adalbert 

von  Chamisso   73 

Adelaide.  By  Friedrich  von  Matthison  .  .  75 
The  Grave  of  Alaric.     By  August,  Count 

Platen    76 

Transylvanian   Hunter's   Song    77 

Swording,  the  Saxon  Duke.     By  Egon  Ebert  78 

The  Mill.     Old  Folk-song. 80 

The  Watch  on  the  Rhine.  By  Max  Schneck- 

enburger    80 

Poems  by  Various  French  Authors. 

Solomon.     By  Victor  Hugo 85 

Moschus.     By  Victor  Hugo 86 

The  Earth.     By  Victor  Hugo 87 

Since  Eve  Placed  My  Lips.  By  Victor  Hugo  88 

Rondel.     By  Charles  d'Orleans 89 

Cassandra.     By  Pierre  de  Ronsard    90 

To  a  Hawthorne.    By  Pierre  de  Ronsard ...  90 

Ballade.     By  Frangois  Villon 91 

6 


TABLK  OF  CONTENTS 

Page. 
The    Inconstant    Shepherdess.      By    Philippe 

Desportes     93 

The  Roses  of  Saatli.     By  M.  D.  Vahnore.  .  94 

A  Woman's  Prayer.     By  M.  U.  Vahnore.  .  94 

Separation.     By  M.  D.  V^ahnore 95 

What  the  Swallows  Say.  By  Theophile  Gau- 

tier    96 

From  the  Ai.lemamc  Poems  of  Johaxn  Peter 
Hebel. 

Jack  and  Maggie lOi 

The   Meadow    103 

The  Contented    Parmer    105 

The  Guide-Post   107 

The  Ghost's  Visit  on  the  Feldberg 108 

Poems  from  the  Minnesingers. 

The   Bliss  of   May.      By   Walther   von   der 

Vogel  weide     121 

A  Miene-Song.     By  Walther  von  der  Vog- 

elweide     121 

From  the  Glorious  Dance.     By  Walther  von 

der  Vogelweide    122 

Spring  and  Women   (opening  stanzas).     By 

Walther  von   der  V^ogelweide 122 

Lines.     By  Conrad  of  Wiirzburg 123 

The  Falcon.     By  Diethmar  von  Aist 123 

Quatrain.     By  Heinrich  von   Morungen...  124 
From  the  "Tristan,"  of  Gottfried  von  Stras- 

burg    124 

Ger.m.an  Poems  of  Three  Successive  Centur- 
ies. 

Trooper's   Song,    XV    Century 129 

Hunter's  Song,  XVI  Century 129 

The  Nettle- Wreath,   XV^I   Century 130 

7 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

Page. 

The  Poet  and  the  Singer.     By  Hans  Sachs. 

XVI    Century    131 

Hymn.     By   Paul  Flemming.     XVH  Cen- 
tury        132 

Sonnet.     By  Paul  Flemming.     XVH  Cen- 
tury       133 

The   Haste  of   Love.      By   Martin   Opitz. 

XVH  Century    134 


POEMS  BY 
WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  EAMENT 

Up  yonder  on  the  mounrain 

A  thousand  times  I  stand, 
Leant  on  my  crook,  and  pazinj:; 

Down  on  the  valley-land. 

I  follow  the  flock  to  the  pasture; 

My  little  doiz  watches  them  still. 
I  have  come  below,  but  I  know  not 

How  I  descended  the  hill. 

The  beautiful  meadow  is  covered 

With  blossoms  of  ever>'  hue; 
I  pluck  them,  alas!  without  knowing 

Whom  I  shall  give  them  to. 

I  seek,  in  the  rain  and  the  tempest, 

A   refuge  under  the  tree: 
Yonder  the  doors  are  fastened, 

And  all  is  a  dream  to  me. 

Right  over  the  roof  of  the  dwelling 

I   sec  a  rainbow  stand  ; 
But  she  has  departed  forever, 

And  gone  far  out  in  the  land. 

Far  out  in  the  land,  and  farther, — 

Perhaps  to  an  alien  shore: 
Go  forward,  ye  sheep!  go  forward, — 

The  heart  of  the  shepherd  is  sore. 

THE  SONG  OF  MIGNON 

Know'st  thou  the  land  where  citron-flowers  unfold? 
Through  dusky  foliage  gleams  the  orange-gold; 
Soft  breezes  float  beneath  the  dark-blue  sky; 
The  myrtle  sleeps,  the  laurel  shoots  on  high? 

II 


Thither — that  land  dost  thou  not  know? 
Would  I  with  thee,  O  my  Beloved,  go! 

Know'st  thou  the  house,  its  roof  on  pillars  fair? 
The  long  hall  shines,  the  chambers  glimmer  there ; 
And  marble  statues  stand  and  gaze  on  me: 
Poor  child,  they  say,  what  ill  was  done  to  thee? 

Thither — that  house  dost  thou  not  know? 
Would  I  with  thee,  O  my  Protector,  go! 

Know'st  thou  the  mountain  ?    Through  the  cloud  it 

soars ; 
In  rolling  mist  the  mule  his  path  explores; 
The  ancient  dragons  haunt  its  caverns  deep, 
And  o'er  the  crashing  rock  the  torrents  leap  ? 

Thither — the  hills  dost  thou  not  know? 
Our  pathway  leads:     O  Father,  let  us  go! 

HARTZ-JOURNEY  IN  WINTER 

The  vulture  like — 

Who,  on  heavy  clouds  of  morning 

With  quiet  pinion  poising. 

Keeps  watch  for  prey — 

Hover,  my  song! 

For  a  God  hath 

Unto  each  his  path 

Fixed  beforehand. 

Which   the  fortunate 

Tread  till  the  happy 

Goal  is  reached: 

But  he,  the  wretched. 

Whose  heart  is  pinched  with  pain, 

He  struggles  vainly 

Against  the  restrictions 

Of  Fate's  thread  of  iron, 

Which  the  shears  still  unwelcome 

But  once  shall  slit. 

12 


In  dusk  of  thickets 

Crowd  the  rough-coated  deer, 

And  with  the  sparrows 

Flavc  the   rich  already 

Juried   themselves  in   muck   and   mire. 

Easy  the  chariot  to  follow 
Driven  by   Fortune's  hand, 
Easy  as  unto  the  troop 
Following    the    Prince's    entry 
Is  the  convenient  highway. 
But,  who  fares  on  by-paths? 

In  the  copse  he  loses  his  way, 
After  him   rustle 
The  branches  together, 
The  grass  springs  up  again, 
The  wilderness  hides  him. 

Ah,  his  pangs  who  shall  solace — 

His,  whose  halm  becomes  poison? 

Who  but  hate  of  man 

Drank   from   very  abundance  of  love! 

First  despised,  and   now  the  despiser, 

Thus  in  secret  he 

His  own  worth  consumes 

In    unsatisfying   self-love. 

Is  there  in  Thy  psalter. 
Father  of  Love,  but  a  tone 
Unto   his  ear  accessible, 
Then   refresh  Thou  his  heart. 
To  his  clouded  sight  reveal 
Where  are  the  thousand  fountains 
Near  to  the  thirt>'  one 
In  the  Desert. 

Thou,  the  Creator  of  joys. 
Giving  the  fullest  cup  to  each. 
Favor   the  sons  of  the  chase, 

13 


Tracking  signs  of  their  game 
With  reckless  ardor  of  youth, 
Murderous,  joyous, 
Late  avengers  of  losses. 
Which  the  peasant  so  vainly 
Fought  for  years  w^ith  his  bludgeon, 

But  the  Solitary  fold 

In  clouds  that  are  golden! 

Entwine  with  winter-green, 

Till  the  rose  again  is  in  blossom, 

The  moistened  tresses, 

O  Love,  of  thy  Poet! 

With  thy  glimmering  flambeau 

Lightest  thou  him 

Through  the  waters  by  night, 

Over  fathomless  courses 

On  desolate  lowlands; 

With  the  thousand  hues  of  the  morning 

Mak'st  thou  his  heart  glad; 

With  the  sting  of  the  storm 

Bear'st  thou  him  high  aloft: 

Winter-torrents  plunge  from  the  granite. 

In   psalms  he  singeth, 

An  altar  of  gratitude  sweet 

Is  for  him  the  perilous  summit's 

Snow-enshrouded   forehead, 

Which  with  circling  phantoms 

Crowned  the  faith  of  the  races. 

Thou  with  inscrutable  bosom  standest 

Mysterious  in  revelation 

Above  the  astonished  world, 

From  clouds  down-looking 

On  all  its  kingdoms  and  splendid  shows 

Which  thou  from  the  veins  dost  water 

Of  brothers  beside  thee. 


14 


GOETHE'S  EPILOGUE 

To  Schiller's  Sor\<z  of  the  Roll,   when   it  was  pre- 
sented in   1815. 

For  he  w.is  ours!     Be  this  proud  consciousness 

A  spell  that  shall  subdue  our  lamentation! 

He  sought  with  us  a  harbor  from  the  stress 

Of  storms,  a  more  enduring  inspiration. 

While  with  strong  step  his  mind  did  forward  press 

To  Good,  Tnith,  Beauty,  in  its  pure  creation, 

And  far  behind  him  lay,  a  formless  vision, 

The  vulgar  power  that  fetters  our  ambition. 

And  thus  his  cheek  grew  red,  and  redder  ever, 
From    that    fair    youth    whose    wings    are    never 

furled. 
That   courage,   crowned   at   last,   whose   proud    en- 
deavor, 
Tames  the  resistance  of  the  stubborn  world. — 
That  faith,  that  onward,  upward,  mounts  forever, 
Now  patient  waiting,  now  in  conflict  hurled. 
That  so  the  Good  shall   work,   increase  and  sway. 
And   for  the  noble  man  shall  dawn  a  nobler  day! 

LIMITS  OF  HUMANITY 

When  the  most  ancient 
Holiest  Father 
With  dispassionate  hand 
From    fast-rolling  cloud-banks 
Lightnings    in    blessing 
Scatters  upon  the  earth, 
I  kiss  the  farthest 
Hem  of  His  garment. 
Tremors  of  childhood 
Filling  my  breast. 

No  man  livcth 

Who  with  the  Godhead 

15 


May  mete  himself: 

If  he  reach  upward 

Till  he  touch 

With   his   forehead   the   stars, 

Nowhere  he  findeth 

For  his  soles  a  foot-hold, 

And  round  him  play  the 

Clouds  and  the  breezes. 

But  when  he  stands  with 

Brawniest  muscles 

On  the  broad  foundations  of 

Earth  everlasting, 

He  does  not  dare 

E'en  with  the  oak-tree, 

Or  with  the  grape-vine 

Contrast  to  challenge. 

How  do  we  differ — 
Gods  and  we  mortals? 
That  many  billows 
Before  them  wander, 
A  stream  without  end: 
The  billow  lifts  us. 
The  billow  whelms  us. 
And  we  are  sunken. 

A  little  ring 

This  life  of  ours  circleth, 

And  long  generations' 

Endless  progression 

Lengthens  forever 

The  chain  of  their  being. 


L.  B.  T.  K. 


PROMETHEUS 


Now  cover  thou  thy  heaven,  Zeus, 
With  misty  clouds, 
And  practise,  like  a  boy 
i6 


Who  thistles  crops, 

Thy  skill  on  oaks  and  mountain-peaks; 

Even  thou  must  suffer 

My  earth   to  stand, 

My  cabin  also,  that  thou  didst  not  build, 

And   eke   my  hearth, 

Whose  cheerful  glow 

Excites  thy  envy. 

I  wot  naught  more  pitiful 

Under  the  sun,  gods,  than  you  are! 

"V'e    nourish   scantily 

With  sacrifices 

And  whiflFs  of  prayer 

Your  majesty. 

And  would  be  starvelings, 

If  children  and  beggars 

Were  not  sanguine  dunces. 

Once  in  my  childhood 

When  sorely  bewildered  and  lost, 

I  cast  up  despairing  glances 

To  yonder  sun,  as  if  aloft 

An  ear  there  were,  to  hear  my  plaining, 

A  heart,  like  mine. 

To  take  compassion  on  my  trouble. 

Who  helped  me 

'Gainst  the  Titans'  overwhelming  might? 

Who  did  deliver  me  from  death, 

From  servitude? 

Did'st  not  accompli>^h  all  unaided. 

Purely   glowing   heart? 

And  full  of  youth  and   faith. 

Tho'  cheated,  gavest  thanks 

To  him  who  sleeps  up  yonder. 

Honor  thee?      And    whercfor? 
When  hast  thou  lightened  the  travail 
Ever  of  burdened  ones? 

17 


When  didst  thou  comfort  the  sorrows 
Ever  of   anguished   ones? 
Was  not  I  forged  into  manhood, 
Moulded  by  Time,  the  almighty, 
And  by  Fate,  the  eternal. 
Masters  of  me  and  of  thee? 

Did'st  thou  imagine 
That  I  would  call  life  hateful, 
Would  flee  into  deserts, 
Because  not  all  my 
Blossom-dreams  have  ripened? 

Here  sit  I,  moulding  mortals 
After  mine  own  image, 
Men,  that  me  shall  resemble, 
To  suffer,  to  sorrow. 
To  enjoy  and  happiness  feel. 
And  of  thee  to  be  scornful. 
As  I! 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

ENCOURAGEMENT 

Cowardly  faltering, 
Hesitant  paltering. 
Womanish  quailing. 
Terrified  wailing 
Turns  not  misfortune, 
Nor  gives  you  the  odds. 

Proving  the  master 
In  spite  of  disaster, 
Yielding  him  never. 
Combating  ever, — 
Thus  man  invoketh 
The  arms  of  the  gods. 

L.  B.  T.  K. 


NEARNESS  OE  THE  BELOVED 

I  think  of  thee  when  bright  the  sunbeams  shimmer 

WHiere  ocean  Hows; 
I  think  of  thee  when  pale  the  moonlight  glimmer 

In   fountains  shows. 

I  see  but  thee  when  on  the  distant  highway 

The  dust  is  blown  ; 
In  darksome  night,  when  trembles  in  a  by-way 

The  wanderer  lone. 

I  hear  but  thee  when  yon  with  muffled  beating 

The  waves  dash   high 
Oft  in  the  silent  grove  I  send  thee  greeting, 

When  none  is  nigh ! 

I  am  with  thee,  e'en  if  afar  thou'rt  pining, — 

\  et  thou  art  near! 
The  sun  has  set,  and  now  the  stars  are  shining, 

Would  thou  wert  here! 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

MUSAGETES 

Oft  in  deepest  nights  of  winter 
To  the  Muses  I  addressed  me: 
"Now  the  sky  is  wrapped  in  darkness 
And  the  day  is  long  in  coming, 
Do  ye  at  the  proper  moment 
Bring  the  lamp's  refreshing  glimmer. 
That  instead  of  Dawn  and  Phoebus 
It  m\    patient  labor  quicken!" 
But  they  left  me  to  my  slumbers, 
Lanquid,  dull   and   unrefreshing, 
And  on  all  these  wasted  mornings 
Followed  days  of  vain  endeavor. 


19 


Then,  when  Spring  had  come  to  gladden, 

To  the  nightingales  I  turned  me: 

"Darling  nightingales,  I  pray  you, 

Warble  early  at  my  window, 

Wake  me  from  the  heavy  slumber. 

Which  the  mind  of  youth  doth  fetter!" 

But  the  little  amorous  songsters 

All  night  warbled  at  my  window 

Their  entrancing  melodies, — 

Kept  enthralled  my  soul  with  rapture. 

Filled  my  palpitating  bosom 

With  a  vague,  unwonted  yearning, 

And  thus  passed  the  night  in  longing. 

And  Aurora  found  me  sleeping, 

Phoebus'   self   could   hardly   wake   me! 

Now  at  length  has  come  the  summer; 
At  the  first  bright  gleam  of  morning 
Comes  the   fly,   industrious,   early. 
Rouses  me  from  pleasant  slumbers, — 
Comes  again  without  compassion 
Though,  but  half-awake,  I  often 
Brush  it  off  with  hands  impatient, — 
Calls  its  saucy,  shameless  sisters. 
Worries  me  till  from  my  eyelids 
Gracious  Sleep  is  forced  to  flee. 
From  my  couch  I  leap,  and  quickly 
Seek  my  well-beloved  Muses, 
Find  them  in  the  grove  of  beeches 
With  their  welcome  ever  ready. 
Thus  is  due  unto  those  tiny 
Insects  many  a  morning  precious. 
May  ye  be,  oh  flies  tormenting, 
By  the  poet  highly  lauded. 
Ye,  in  truth,  are  Musagetes! 

L.  B.  T.  K. 


20 


THE  GOD  AND  THE  BAYADERE 

A  Legt  nd  of  InJ'ui 

He  of  all  the  Gods  the  greatest, 

Mahadeva,  came  once  more 

Down  to  earth  the  sixth  and  latest 

Time,  to  study  human  lore. 

And  he  deigns  to  dwell  here  truly, 

Bears  the  ills  that  mortals  ken. 

For  to  mete  out  judgment  duly 

He  must  be  a  man  with  men. 

And  when  as  a  wand'rer  the  town  he  knows  wholly, 

Has    spied    on    the    great    ones,    watched    over    the 

lowly, 
And  evening  is  falling,  he  fares  forth  again. 

As  he  goes  without  the  city, 

Where  the  houses  first  begin, 

He  beholds  a  sight  to  pit}', — 

Painted,  fair,  a  child  of  sin. 

Greet  thee,  maiden! — Welcome  here,  sir! 

Wait,  and   I'll  be  with  you  straight. 

What  art  thou? — A  Bayadere,  sir! 

And   this  house  of  Love  the  gate. — 

At  once  she  begins,  with  a  clashing  of  cymbal, 

And  swaying,  and  winding  a  circle  so  nimble. 

And  bending,  she  offers  her  nosegay,  elate. 

Toward  the  threshold  him  persuading. 

Eagerly  she  leads  him  In  ; 

Gentle  stranger,  all-pervading 

Light  shall  instant  glow  within! 

If  you're  weary,  let  me  tend  you. 

Bathe  your  waysore,  aching  feet. 

All  you  wish  I  will  extend  you. 

Frolic,  joy,  or  rest  so  sweet. 

She  bustles  about,  his  feigned  sorrows  beguiling; 


21 


The  god  is  rejoiced,  and  watches  her  smiling, 
A  heart  that  is  kindly,  though  sinful,  to  greet. 

And  he  slavish  tasks  imposes — 

She  is  cheerful  evermore; 

And  as  natural  discloses 

What  was  artifice  before. 

Thus  the  flower's  debt  fulfilling, 

Soon  the  fruitage  ripe  we  find ; 

Where  obedience  is  willing, 

Soon  with  love  'twill  be  combined. 

Sharper  and  sharper  to  prove  her  he  chooses ; 

Knowing  the  highest  and  deepest,  he  uses 

Ecstasy,  horror,  and  anguish  of  mind. 

'Neath  his  kiss  her  cheeks  are  redding, 

And  she  feels  of  love  the  pain; 

And  her  first  tears  she  is  shedding. 

Stealing  down  her  cheeks  like  rain. 

At  his  feet  she  sinketh  meekly, 

Not  for  gain  or  passion  sues, 

And  her  pliant  body  weakly 

Every  office  doth  refuse. 

And  so  o'er  the  couch  where  repose  these  fond  lovers, 

The  Spirit  of  Darkness  benignantly  covers 

A  curtain  of  magical  texture  diffuse. 

Late  she  sleeps,  'mid  fond  caresses. 

Rises  early  from  her  bed. 

Sees  her  lover,  whom  she  presses 

To  her  heart,  is  cold  and  dead. 

Crying,  she  doth  close  embrace  him, 

Can  not  life  in  him  inspire; — 

And  the  funeral  bearers  place  him 

Soon  within  the  pit  of  fire. 

The  chanting  of  songs  by  the  Brahmins  she  heareth. 

And  raving,  a  path  through  the  people  she  cleareth. 

"Who  art  thou?  what  seekest  thou  here  at  the  pyre?" 


22 


By  his  bier  she  falleth,  shrieking, 

That  the  air  with  sound  is  split. 

'Tis  my  husband  I  am  seeking, 

And  I  seek  him  in  the  pit! 

Shall  his  limbs  to  dust  be  turning, 

Like  a  god's  so  young  and  fair? 

Mine  ho  w.is!  though  lovers'  yearning 

But  a  single  night  we  share. 

'I'he  Brahmins  are  chanting;  the  aged  we  carry, 

Though  slowly  they  wither,  and  long  may  they  tarry, 

We  carr}-  the  youthful,  before  they're  aware! 

Hear  the  counsel  we  are  giving: 

Husband  he  was  not  to  thee. 

Thou  as  Bayadere  wcrt  living, 

Thus  of  duty  thou  wert  free! 

Shadows  follow  bodies  only 

To  the  realm  of  death  and  night ; 

Wives  may  follow  husbands  only — 

'Tis  their  duty  and  their  right. 

Then  blow  we  the  tnmipet,  our  dirges  upraising, 

We  mourn  for  the  dead,  and  his  virtues  are  praising: 

Oh,  take  him  in  flames  to  elysian  delight! 

Thus  the  chorus,  void  of  feeling, 

But  her  angiu'sh  deepeneth. 

She  with  outstretched  arms  appealing, 

Springs  into  the  fierj-  death. 

But  the  God,  in  youth  resplendent. 

High  above  the  flames  doth  rise, 

And  his  love,  in  bliss  transcendant. 

In  his  arms  enfolded  lies. 

The  godhead  is  pleasured  by  sinners  repenting; 

Immortals  to  save  the  lost  children  consenting, 

In  fierj'  arms  waft  them  up  to  the  skies. 

L.  B.  T.  K. 


23 


THE  APPRENTICE  AT  MAGIC 

Now  my  master,  the  magician, 
Left  me  here  without  forbiddin', 
And  his  spirits  my  volition 
Shall  obey,  and  do  my  biddin'! 
Words  and  incantation 
I  remember  well. 
And  in  emulation 
I  can  work  the  spell. 

Foot  it!  foot  it! 

Ample  measure; 

For  my  pleasure 

Water's  gushin'; 

Fill  the  bath  wherein  you  put  it 

With  a  copious  current  rushin' ! 

Now   come   forth,    old    broom   so   dusty! 
See,  these  rags  I  hang  about  you, 
Long  you've  been  our  servant  trusty, 
You'll  obey,  I  never  doubt  you ! 
On  two  legs  I  set  you. 
With  a  head  atop  ; 
Hurry  now  and  get  you 
Buckets, — do  not  stop! 

Foot  it!  foot  it! 

Ample  measure; 

For  my  pleasure 

Water's  gushin' ; 

Fill  the  bath  wherein  you  put  it 

With  a  copious  current  rushin' ! 

Look !  he's  runnin'  down  so  swiftly 
In  a  twinklin'  to  the  river, 
Speedier  than  lightnin',  deftly, 
Back  he  comes  with  fleet  endeavor. 


24 


Now  the  basin's  brimfull, 
He  has  iilk'il  it  twice; 
Kver>'  vessel's  rinifull, 
Brimmin'  in  a  trice! 

Stay  now !  stay  now ! 

^  ou're  efficient, 

Win  sufficient 

Approbation ! 

Woe  is  me!  he  won't  obey  me! 

I've  forgot  the  exhortation! 

Oh,  the  word  that  turns  him  swiftly 

Back  to  what  he  was  aforetime. 

See,  he  runs  and  carries  deftly; 

Would  you  were  a  broom  one  more  time! 

Floods  of  water  gushin' 

Still  he  brings  apace, 

Hundred  rivers  rushin' 

Flowin'  through  the  place. 

Now,  or  never. 

Time  to  nab  him ; 

I  will  grab  him ! 

He  is  spiteful ! 

Oh,  I  fear  him  more  than  ever! 

See    his    face,    so    scowling,    frightful! 

Oh,  you  imp  of  Hell's  creation ! 

Will  you  drown  us  with  your  pourin'? 

Everywhere  this  inundation 

Covers  inches  deep  the  Hoorin'! 

You  old  broom  of  curst  guile. 

Listen  to  my  will ! 

Stick,  that  you  were  erstwhile, 

Will  you  now  stand  still? 

So  you  would  not 
When  I  told  vou! 
Well,  I'll  hold  you. 
And  I'll  hit  you  I 

2$ 


Since  you  are  of  wood,  what 
Odds  I  do  not  split  j'ou? 

Look !  another  load  he's  luggin' ! 
Now,  how  should  I  best  attack  him  ? 
Wait,  you  imp,  just  watch  me  sluggin' ! 
With  this  hatchet  I  will  whack  him. 
See,  I  struck  him  squarely, 
He  is  split  in  twain! 
I  have  served  him  fairly, 
And  I  breathe  again! 

Lord,  preserve  me! 

Here's  a  couple 

Of  these  supple 

Servants  flightly. 

Who  arise  and  rush  to  serve  me! 

Help  me  now,  ye  powers  almighty! 

And  they're  runnin' !    Water's  pourin', — 

They  with  one  another  vyin' — 

Streams   are    floodin'    stairs   and    floorin' ! 

Oh,  my  master,  hear  me  crj'in' ! 

Here  my  master's  comin' ! 

Sir,  my  need  is  great; 

These,  whom  I  did  summon, 

Will  not  dissipate! 

"To  your  corner. 

Broom-stick!  broom-stick! 

Be  a  broom  quick ! 

I  forbid  you 

That  ye  e'er  as  spirits  born  are. 

Till  I  as  j^our  master  bid  you!" 

L.  B.  T.  K. 


36 


ELF-KING 

Who  rideth  abroad  in  the  night  so  u  ild  ? 

It  is  the  father  with  his  child: 

He  holds  the  boy  in  his  sheltering  arm, 

He  folds  him  close,   and   he  keeps  him   warm. 

"My  son.  why  hid'st  thou  they  face  in  such  fear?" 
"Oh,  father,  look!  the  elf-king  is  near, 
Dost  see  his  crown  and  his  train  so  bright?" 
"My  son,  'tis  mist  that  shineth  white." 

"My  darling  child,  come,  go  with  me, 
Where  lovely  toys  are  waiting  for  thee! 
Bright  flowers  grow  on  the  river's  brim ; 
My  mother  has  golden  dresses  so  trim." 

"My  father,  my  father,  and  dost  thou  not  hear? 
Elf-king  is  whispering  his  wiles  at  my  ear!" 
"Be  quiet,  now.  be  quiet,  my  child! 
'Tis  rustling  of  leaves  in  the  wind  so  wild!" 

"Wilt  come  with  me.  thou  beautiful  boy? 
My  daughters  shall   tend  and  serve  thee  with  joy; 
My  daughters  their  nightly  revels  will  keep, 
And    rock   thee,  and   dance  thee,   and   sing  thee   to 
sleep!" 

"My  father,  my  father,  dost  see  over  there 
The  elf-king's  daughters  with  shimmering  hair?" 
"My  son,  my  son,  I  see  it  quite  plain: 
The  old  grey  willows  we're  passing  amain!" 

"I  adore  thee,  my  beauty!  thou  canst  not  refuse! 
But  if  thou  resistest,  then  force  I  will  use!" 
"My  father,  my  father,  he  seizes  my  arm! 
The  elf-king  has  done  me  grievous  harm!" 


27 


The  father  galloped,  his  heart  beat  wild, 
He  held  in  his  arms  the  quivering  child. 
At  length  reached  his  home  in  fear  and  dread: 
And  in  his  arms  the  child  was  dead, 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

THE   DANCE   OF  THE   DEAD 

The  sexton  looks  down  in  the  middle  of  the  night 

On  the  gravestones  in  rows  all  reposing, 

The  moon  makes  everything  clear  and  bright, 

The  churchyard  in  day  light  lies  dozing, 

When  a  grave  it  opens,  another  one  then. 

And  forth  they  come  trooping,  the  women  and  men. 

In  snowy  and  long-trailing  garments. 

They  hurry,  and  soon  in  a  circle,  behold ! 

Their  feet  they  are  lifting,  and  prancing. 

So  young  and  so  poor,  and  so  rich  and  so  old, — 

The  trains  they  hinder  in  dancing. 

And  as  modesty  here  they've  long  outgrown. 

They  shake  themselves,  and  quickly  are  strovvn 

The  garments  all  over  the  graveyard. 

Now  thigh-bones  are  lifted,  and  gestures  queer 

Abundantly  show  their  pleasure, 

And  a  clippering,  clapping  you  sometimes  hear, 

As  the  rattling  bones  sound  the  measure. 

The  sexton  all  this  most  ridiculous  deems, 

When  something  whispers,  the  Tempter,  it  seems, 

"Go  pick  up  one  of  their  sheetings!" 

'Tis  done  soon  as  thought,  and  quickly,  in  fear, 
He  hides  behind  sacred  portals. 
The  moon  yet  shineth  so  bright  and  so  clear 
On  the  dance  of  these  gruesome  immortals. 
But  finally  they  can  no  longer  abide. 
And  one  and  the  other  slinks  sheeted  aside. 
And  lo!  it  is  *bwe  under  the  greensward. 
28 


But   one    poe5    trippinp   and    stumblinp;   about, 

And  taps  at  the  vaults  unrclentinji. — 

VoT  sonir  one  has  played  it  a  trick,  no  doubt — 

On  the  winds  its  garment  scenting. 

It  rattles  the  door  of  the  tower,  in  vain! 

— The  sexton's  in  luck — 'tis  blessed,  like  the  fane. 

And  covered  with  wrought-iron  crosses. 

It  must  have  the  sheeting,  or  it's  in  a  plight, 

Nor  has  it  much  time  to  tarr>'. 

The  ornaments  Gothic  it  seizes,  the  wight. 

And  climbs  by  the  volutes.     Marry, 

'Tis  up  with  the  sexton,  the  poor  sinful  man! 

It's  hitching  his  way  from  span  to  span. 

Like  a  hideous  long-legged  spider. 

The  sexton  trembles,  the  sexton  grows  pale, 
He'd  give  back  the  sheeting  gladly; 
For  he  feels — will  he  live  to  tell  the  tale? — 
That  the  sheeting  it's  clutching  madly! — 
The  moon  is  obscured  by  a  cloudlet  dun, 
The  clock  booms  forth  a  thunderous  "One", — 
And  the  skeleton  breaks  on  the  pavement. 

L.  B.  T.  K. 


29 


POEMS  BY 
FRIEDRICH  VON  SCHILLER 


Tivo  Early  Lyrics 
A  GROUP  IN  TARTARUS 

Hark  I  as  noises  of  the  hoarse,  aroused  sea, 
As  through   hollow-throated    rocks  a  streamlet's 
moan, 

Sounds  below  there,  wearily  and  endlessly, 
A  torture-burdened  groan! 

Faces    wearing 
Pain  alone,  in  wild  despairing. 

Curse  through  jaws  that  open  wide; 
And  with  haggard  eyes  forever 
Gaze  upon  the  bridge  of  Hell's  Black  river, 

Weeping,  gaze  upon  its  sullen  tide. 

Ask  each  other,  then,  in  fearful  whispers, 

If  not  soon  the  end  shall  he? 
Ihe  End? — the  scythe  of  Time  is  broken; 

Over  them  revolves  Eternity ! 

ELYSIUM 

Gone  is  the  wail  and  the  torture! 
Elysium's  banquets  of  rapture 

Chase  ever\  shadow  of  woe! 

Elysium's  seeing. 

Endless  the  bliss,  and  endless  the  bein^. 
As  musical  brooks  through  the  meadows  that  flow! 

May  is  eternal. 
Over  the   vernal 

Landscapes  of  youth ; 


33 


The  hours  bring  golden  dreams  in  their  races, 
The  soul  is  expanded  through  infinite  spaces, 
The  veil  is  torn  from  the  visage  of  truth! 

Here  never  a  morrow 

The  heart's  full  rapture  can  blight; 
Even  a  name  is  wanting  to  Sorrow 
And  Pain  is  only  a  gentler  delight. 

Here,    stretching    his   weary    limbs,    prone    on    the 

meadows, 
Resteth  the  pilgrim  in  whispering  shadows, 

Casteth  forever  his  burden  aside, — 
Here  the  reaper  droppeth  his  sickle, 
Lulled  by  the  harpings  that  faintly  trickle, 

Dreameth  of  harvests  fair  and  wide. 

He  whose  banner  waved  in  storm-winds  thundrous. 
He  whose  ears  were  filled  with  riot  murdrous, 

Mountains  trembled   'neath  his   foot-steps'   thun- 
der-might,— 
Sleeps  here  softly  where  the  brooklet  babbles. 
That  like  silver  glistens  o'er  the  pebbles, 

Hears  no  more  the  tumult  of  the  fight. 

Wedded  lovers'  faith  is  here  rewarded. 
They  embrace  on  velvet  meadows  swarded, 

By  the  zephyr's  balm  caressed ; 
Love  here  finds  its  best  fruition, 
Safe  from  Death's  grim  inhibition. 

Marriage  feasts  have  endless  zest.* 


*The  first  half  of  "Elysium"  was  translated  by 
Bayard  Taylor,  the  second  half  by  his  daughter,  L. 
B.  T.  Kiliani. 


34 


THE  FIRST  SCENE  OF  WILHELM  TELL 

Drama  in  Flvf  Acts 
FiSHER-BoY 

Iinitlnt;  the  bather,  the  bright  lake  is  leaping; 
The  fisher-boy  lies  on  its  margin  a-sleeping; 

Then  hears  he  a  nuisic 

Like  riutes  in  its  tone 

Like  voices  of  angels 

In   Eden  alone. 
And   as  he  awakens,   enraptured   and   blest, 
The  waters  are  whirling  around  his  breast; 

And  a  voice  from  the  waters 

Sa\s:  "Mine  thou  must  be! 

I  wait  for  the  sleeper, 

I  lure  him  to  me!" 

Herdsman 

Ye  meadows,   farewell ! 

Ye  sunniest  pastures. 

The  herdsman  must  leave  you. 

The  summer  is  gone. 
We  go  from  the  hills,  we  come  ere  long 
When  the  cuckoo  calls,  and  the  sound  of  song; 
When  the  earth  with  blossoms  again  is  gay, 
When  the  fountains  gush  in  the  lovely  May. 

Ye  meadows,  farewell! 

"^'e  sunniest  pastures, 

The  herdsman  must  leave  you, 

The  summer  is  gone. 

Alpine  Hunter 

The  avalanche  thunders,  the  bridges  are  frail. 
The  hunter  is  fearless,  though  dizzy  the  trail ; 
He  strides  in  his  daring 

35 


O'er  deserts  of  snow, 

Where  Spring  never  bloosoms 

And  grass  never  grows, 
And  the  mists  like  an  ocean  beneath  him  are  tost, 
Till  the  cities  of  men  to  his  vision  are  lost. 

Through  the  rifts  of  the  cloud-land 

The  far  world  gleams, 

And  the  green  fields  under 

The  Alpine  streams. 

THE  COUNT  OF  HABSBURG 

At  Aix  in  imperial  splendor  dight, 

In  the  ancient  hall  of  the  Nation, 

Sat  Rudolph  the  King  in  his  sacred  might. 

At  the  feast  of  his  coronation. 

The  dishes  were  borne  by  the  Count  of  the  Rhine, 

The  Bohemian  poured  out  the  sparkling  wine, 

And  all  the  Electors,  the  Seven, 

As  the  starry  host  to  the  sun  in  thrall, 

Were  busily  serving  the  Ruler  of  all, 

Fulfilling  their  duties  given. 

The  balconies  held  a  joyous  crowd 

Of  folk  in  holiday  faring, 

Who  voiced  their  joy  in  plaudits  loud, 

That  mixed  with  the  trumpets'  blaring. 

For  ended  at  last  are  the  direful  crimes 

Of  the  rulerless,  the  terrible  times. 

And  justice  once  more  prevaileth. 

No  longer  blindly  ruleth  the  spear, 

And  the  weak  and  the  peaceful  no  longer  fear, 

When  the  might  of  the  great  ones  assaileth. 

And  the  Emperor,  raising  his  beaker  of  gold, 

Outspake,  and  smiled  debonnairly, 

"The  splendor  of  banquet  and  feast,  behold! 

Our  heart  It  pleaseth  rarely! 

We  lack  but  the  minstrel,  who  bringeth  delight, 

36 


Who  with  music  sweet  our  breast  doth  excite, 
And  with  precepts  exalted  in  measure. 
Such  was  our  wont  since  the  days  of  our  youth, 
And  the  Emperor  will  not  relinquish,  forsooth! 
What  as  Knight  he  practiced  with  pleasure." 

And,  lo!  the  circle  of  nobles  and  peers. 

It  opened,  the  minstrel  showing, — 

His  locks  were  silvered  o'er  with  years, 

His  robe  was  long  and  Howing. 

"Sweet  melody  doth  from  my  harp-strings  proceed: 

The  minstrel  singeth  the  lover's  meed, 

The  best  and  the  highest  voicing; 

What  the  spirit  craves,  what  the  heart  doth  require: 

And  prithee,  what  is  the  Emperor's  desire, 

On  his  greatest  day,  rejoicing?" 

"I  may  not  command   the  minstrel   to  sing," 

The  monarch  smiling  sayeth, 

"He  stands  in  the  thrall  of  a  mightier  King, 

The  behest  of  the  hour  obeyeth. 

For  as   in   the  heavens   the   hurricane   blows, 

And  none  may  guess  whence  it  comes  and  grows; 

As  the  spring  from  caverns  hidden, — 

So  pours  from  the  soul  of  the  minstrel  his  song, 

And  the  passions  the  breast  has  harbored  long 

Awake  to  life  unbidden." 

The  minstrel  touches  his  harp  apace, 

The  resonant  chords  far  carr>  : 

"Forth  rode  a  noble  knight  to  the  chase. 

The  fugitive  chamois  to  harr>-. 

His  squire  came  after  with  huntinc  gear; 

And  when  his  horse  had  borne  him  near 

To  a  meadow,  softly  ringing 

Afar  he  heard  a  tinkling  bell, 

And  a  priest  with  his  acolyte  saw  full  well, 

The  host  to  a  sick  man  bringing. 


37 


The  Count  right  humbly  bent  his  knee, 

Head   bared   in  veneration, 

As  a  Christian  worshipped  reverently 

What  gives  the  world  salvation. 

But  a  brooklet  brawling  athwart  the  mead. 

By  the  freshet  swelled,  its  banks  did  exceed. 

The  steps  of  the  wayfarers  staying; 

The  priest  set  down  the  sacrament  soon 

And  began  from  his  feet  to  strip  the  shoon, 

To  wade  through  the  brook  essaying. 

"What  do  ye?"  thus  the  Count  began 

And  looked  at  him  inquiring; 

"I  am  going,  Sir,  to  a  dying  man 

The  blessed  unction  desiring. 

And  now  that  I've  come  to  the  narrow  foot-way. 

The  turbulent  freshet  hath  torn  it  away. 

In  the  sv^arl  of  its  eddies  rushing. 

And  so,  that  the  soul  of  the  sick  I  may  shrive, 

With  naked  feet  I   must  contrive 

To  wade  through  the  rivulet  gushing." 

But  the  Count  sets  him  up  on  his  knightly  steed, 

And  gives  the  reins  to  him  willing, 

That  he  solace  the  dying  man  with  speed, 

His  holy  office  fulfilling. 

Himself  then  the  nag  of  his  squire  bestrides 

And  forth  to  his  hunting  blithely  he  rides. 

The  other  his  journey  speedeth  ; 

And   the  following  morn  with  grateful  mien, 

He  appears  on  foot  at  the  Count's  demesne. 

And  humbly  the  stallion  leadeth. 

"Now  God  forbid,"  spake  out  the  Count, 
"That  for  any  deer  to  be  harried 
I  ever  again  this  steed  should  remount, 
Which  the  Host  of  the  Lord  hath  carried ! 
And  if  thou'lt  not  keep  him  for  use  of  thy  own. 
Then  let  him  be  vowed  to  God's  service  alone. 
For  a  gift  he  was  freely  given 
38 


To  Him  from  whom  In  tec  I  hold 

My  lift*  and  breath  and  honor  and  gold, 

My  sold  and  my  hope  of  Heaven!" 

"Now  may  our  God,  the  almigiity   Lord, 

Who  hears  the  prayers  of  the  weakest, 

To  thee  such  honor  yet  afford, 

As  thou  to  serve  Him  seekest. 

A  mii^hty  Count  thou  art,  and   kent 

As  Switzerlanij's  knightly  ornament." 

Inspired  thus  he  presages: 

"Six  daughters  beautiful  are  thine. 

Six  crowns  they  bring  to  thy  princely  line. 

And  flourish  they  house  through  the  ages!" 

And  the  Emperor  sat  with  bended  brow, 

In  the  fields  of  his  memor>'  gleaning, 

As  he  marked  the  minstrel  closely  now. 

The  words  of  the  song  took  meaning; 

The  face  of  the  priest  at  last  he  knew% 

And  the  quick  tears  springing  he  hid  from  view. 

His  purple  mantle  raising. 

And  all  on  the  Emperor  fixed  their  eyes. 

And   in   him  the  Count  did   recognize. 

The  ways  of  Providence  praising. 

L.  H.  T.  K. 

THE  DIVER 

"Now  who  is  among  ye,  or  knight  or  squire. 

Dares  plunge  into  yonder  abyss? 

A  goblet  of  gold  in  its  eddies  dire 

I  fling,  and  lo!  'tis  engulfed  ere  this! 

And    if   any   man   here   bring  back   the  bauble, 

He  e'en  may  keep  it,  a  fee  for  his  trouble!" 

Thus  speaketh  the  king,  and  casts  from   tlie  verge 
Of  the  crag,  that  sheer  and  steep, 
O'erhangs   the   ocean's   limitless  surge, 

39 


A  goblet  into   Chatybdis  deep. 

"Again  I  ask,  who  has  courage  ready, 

To  dive  in  the  maelstrom's  whirling  eddy?" 

And  the  ring  of  knights  and  squires  so  brave 

In  silence  the  challenge  heed  ; 

Gaze  on  the  tumult  of  wind  and  wave, 

And  none  for  the  goblet  will  venture  the  deed. 

And  again  the  king  for  the  third  time  speaketh: 

"Is  there  none  who  bravely  his  fortune  seeketh?" 

But  they  all  are  silent  round  about: 

And  a  stripling,  gentle  and  bold, 

From  the  ranks  of  the  timorous  squires  steps  out. 

Casts  aside  his  belt  and  his  mantle's  fold, — 

And  the  men  and  the  ladies  gaze  astounded 

At  the  young  man's  beauty  of  figure  rounded. 

And  as  he  stands  on  the  precipice, 
And  looks  on  the  chasm  beneath. 
The  waters  return  in  the  horrid  abyss: 
Charybdis  howling  commences  to  seethe, 
And  bursting  her  cavernous  depths  asunder. 
She  belches  forth  in  a  voice  of  thunder! 

And  it  bubbles  and  hisses,  it  foams  and  it  boils, 
As  when  water  commingles  with   fire. 
To  heaven  it  spurteth  in  steaming  coils. 
And  flood  upon  flood  it  mounteth  higher. 
And  forth  it  pours  in  endless  commotion, — 
An  ocean  that  giveth  birth  to  an  ocean ! 

But  the  turmoil  wild  is  stilled  at  last: 

Through  the  white  foam,  black  and  fell, 

A  yawning  gulf  is  opening  fast, 

And  bottomless,  as  the  road  to  Hell. 

And  he  sees  the  surging  billows  leaping. 

Their  course  down  the  furious  vortex  keeping. 


40 


Now  quick,  ere  the  roaring  waters  return, 
A  prayer  unto  God   he  breathes; 
With  a  shuddering  cr}'  the  beholders  turn, — 
He  leaps,  where  the  swirling  eddy  seethes! 
The  whirlpool   rages,  engulfs  the  swimmer, 
The  vortex  closes,  and  hope  grows  dimmer! 

And  now  are  hushed  the  waters  loud. 

The  depths  are  ringing  his  knell, 

And  a  mumiur  runs  through  the  awe-struck  crowd : 

"O  youth  undaunted,  fare  thee  well!" 

And  hoarser  and  hollower  howleth  the  surging 

Of  the  maelstrom's  rage,  to  its  climax  converging. 

"And  if  you  should  cast  your  crown  in  the  sea. 
And  say :  who  brings  back  the  crown, 
Himself  shall  wear  it  and  king  shall  be, — 
Not  for  such  a  prize  would  I  venture  down ! 
What   horrors  that  howling  abyss  concealeth, 
No  happy  mortal,  living,  revealeth! 

'Tull  many  a  ship,  sailing  gallantly  past. 
Engulfed  in  this  whirlpool  we  saw, 
And  shattered  wreckage  of  keel  and  of  mast 
Was  vomited  forth  from  its  ravenous  maw !" 
And  louder  and  louder,  as  tempests  roaring. 
And  nearer  and  nearer  the  waters  are  pouring. 

And  it  bubbles  and  hisses,  it  foams  and  it  boils, 
As  when  water  commingles  with  fire, 
To  the  heavens  it  spurteth  in  steaming  coils, 
And  flood  upon  flood  it  mounteth  higher. 
And  bursting  its  cavernous  depths  asunder, 
It  belches  forth  in  a  voice  of  thunder! 

And  lo!  in  the  waters  dark  and  drear 
They  behold  a  gleam  of  white. 
And  an  arm  and   a  shining  neck  appear. 
And  he  breasteth  strongly  the  surges'  might : 

41 


'Tis  he,  and  in  his  left  hand  he  swingeth 
On  high  the  goblet  that  he  bringeth ! 

And  deep  and  long  was  the  breath  he  drew, 

As  he  greeted  the  light  of  day: 

And  a  joyous  clamor  quickly  grew. 

"He  lives!     He  is  here!     He  found  the  way! 

From  the  grave,  from  the  whirlpool's  rage  infernal, 

He  bravely  hath  saved  his  soul  eternal!" 

He  comes,  he  draws  near  with  the  joyous  crowd; 
He  sinks  at  the  feet  of  the  king, 
And  kneeling  presenteth  the  goblet,  proud ; 
And  the  king  bids  his  daughter  guerdon  bring, 
She  the  goblet  brimfull  of  wine  on  him  presses, 
And  these  words  the  youth  to  the  king  addresses: 

"Long  life  to  the  king!     And  glad  let  him  be. 

Who  breathes  in  the  light  of  day. 

For  horrible  'tis  down  there  in  the  sea! 

Let  no  man  desire  what  the  gods  gainsay, 

And  never  and  never  seek  to  discover 

What    in    mercy   with    darkness    and    terrors    they 


"It  tore  me  down  with  the  speed  of  light. 

Till  shot  from  a  rift  in  my  course, 

A  rushing  stream  in  my  face  did  smite: — 

I  was  gripped  by  the  maelstrom's  furious  force, 

And  like  a  top,  in  dizzy  gs^ration, 

I  was  whirled  around  without  cessation. 

"And  God,  to  whom  for  help  I  called, 

In  my  great  and  imminent  need. 

He  showed  a  reef  to  my  e\'es  appalled. 

To  which  I  clung,  and  from  death  was  freed : 

And  there  hung  the  cup,  from  a  coral  depending, 

That  else  had  fallen  to  depths  unending. 


42 


I 


"For  far  below  nir,  inountiiiiiN  deep, 

An  empurpled  darkness  lay. 

And   though   to  the  ear  it  seemed   to  sleep, 

The  eye  beheld,  with  fear  and  ilismay 

Lizards,  salamanders  and  drajzons  tremendous 

Astir  in  that  hellisli  cavern  stupendous. 

"And  knotted,  in  black  contusion,  they 

Were  horribly  squirminj:;  about ; 

The  prickle-set  fish,  the  stinping  ray. 

The   hammerhead's   monstrous,   distorted    snout, 

And  with  serrated  teeth  in  menacinp;  motion, 

The  terrible  shark,  the  hyena  of  ocean! 

"And  there  I  hunp,  ami  shudderinfj;  confessed, 

From  human  aid  so  remote, 

'Mid  masks  the  only  sentiment  breast, 

Alone  in  this  vast  desolation  afloat. 

Far  down  neath   the  sound  of  human  voices, 

Where  only  the  hideous  monster  rejoices. 

"And   terror  o'ercame  me:  when  sprawling  near, 

Comes  a  hundred-jointed   thinp. 

With  snappinjz  of  jaws;  in  a  panic  of  fear 

I  loose  the  coral  to  which  I  cling. 

The  whirlpool  grips  me  in  wild  g>'ration. 

But  it  tears  me  upward,  imto  salvation!" 

The  tale  in  ama/enient  heareth  the  king. 

And  saith,  "the  goblet  is  thine. 

And  added  to  it,  this  precious  ring 

With  its  jewel  rare  for  thee  I  design, 

If  thou  tr>'  once  more  and  give  me  a  notion 

What  thou  saw'st   in   the   uttermost  depths  of   the 


ocean 


I" 


His  daughter  hears  it  in  soft  dismay. 
And   in  coaxing  tones  doth   plead : 
"Let,  father,  enough  be  the  cruel  play! 

43 


What  none  would  do,  he  hath  done  the  deed; 

If  your  heart's  desire  be  thus  untamed, 

Let  not  the  knights  by  the  squire  be  shamed!" 

And  quickly  the  king  grips  the  goblet  then, 
And  flings  it  down  in  the  sea: 
And  if  thou  bring  back  the  goblet  again, 
Of  all  my  knights  the  best  thou  shalt  be, 
And  this  very  day  to  the  altar  be  leading 
The  maiden  who  now  thy  cause  is  pleading." 

Then  heavenly  bliss  in  his  soul  is  bred, 
And  his  eyes  they  sparkle  bright. 
He  sees  the  fair  one  flush  rosy  red, 
And  he  sees  her  sink  down  pale  and  white; 
This  prize  so  precious,  he  must  attain  it. 
And  he  plunges  in,  to  die  or  gain  it! 

And  the  surges  roar,  and  again  they  rise, 
Proclaimed  by  their  thundrous  call ; 
They  are  watched  with  eager,  with  loving  eyes: 
They  come,  they  come,  the  waters  all, 
And  upward  they  rush,  and  downward  ever, 
The  gallant  youth  returneth  never! 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

THE  FEAST  OF  ELEUSIS 

Ears  of  the  wheat  for  the  garland  you're  wreathing 

Take,  and  the  dark-blue  cyanas  between ! 
Joy  full  as  pure  as  the  air  that  you're  breathing 

Fill  your  hearts  as  you  welcome  the  Queen. 
For  she  tamed   Man's  wildness  primeval, 

Made  him  live  with  his  neighbor  content. 
To  a  cottage,  devoid  of  evil, 

Changed  his  dwelling  of  yore,  the  tent. 

Clefts  of  rocks  and  secret  places 
Sheltered  then  the  troglodyte; 
Roving  nomads  left  their  traces, — 
44 


Land  laid  waste  as  by  a  blight. 
Hunstmen   only  braved   its  danger, — 

Arrows  and  a  spear  they  bore; 
Woe  unto  the  shipwrecked  stranger 

Cast  on  that  forsaken  shore! 

Of  her  ceaseless  wand  "rings  weary, 

Still   in  search  of   Proserpine, 
Ceres  reached  this  country  drear>-, 

Where  no  fields  were  waving  green, 
Where  no  homes  of  humble  tillers 

Of  the  soil  their  welcome  shed, 
A\'here  no  temple  reared  its  pillars, — 

Where  the  fear  of  God  was  dead ! 

Nowhere  did  the  harvest's  treasure 

To  a  pure  repast  invite, 
But  the  altars  bore  full   measure — 

Human  victims,  bones  bleached  white! 
\'ea,  and  everywhere  she  wandered 

She  encountered  sin,  disgrace. 
And  her  generous  spirit  pondered 

How  to  lift  the  human  race. 

"Man  with  beaut\'  we  did  dower 

Such  as  gods  enjoy  in  bliss. 
Where  o'er  Tempe  mountains  tower, — 

And  is  he  reduced  to  this? 
We  did  give  him  for  a  dwelling 

(^ur  progenitress,  the  Earth; 
On  Her  regal  bosom  swelling 

Outcast,  he  doth  suffer  dearth. 

"Has  no  god  by  pity  driven, 
None  of  all  the  heavenly  band. 

From  disgrace  to  free  him  striven? 
Has  none  lent  a  helping  hand? 

In  the  happy  meads  of  heaven 
They  feel  not  for  others'  woe, 

45 


But  the  anguish  that  is  given 
Unto  Man,  I  well  do  know! 

"Man  must  seal  a  league  eternal, 

If  true  manhood  he  would  know, 
Keep  his  faith  with  his  maternal 

Soil,  the  Earth,  for  weal  or  woe, — 
Must  give  honor  to  the  holy 

Laws  of  Nature,  and  the  long 
Marches  of  the  moons  that  slowly 

Wander  in   melodious  song!" 

Softly  she  the  mist  disperses 

With  which  mortal  sight  was  sealed ; 
Midst  of  savage  oaths  and  curses, 

Lo!  the  goddess  stood  revealed! 
At  a  feast  of  martial  glory 

Gathered  was  the  savage  horde, — 
From  a  cup,  all  blood  and  gory, 

A  libation  they  have  poured ! 

At  the  sight  with  horror  stricken. 

Shuddering  she  turned  and  spake: 
"Bloody  feasts  may  tigers  quicken. 

Such  no  god  will  e'er  partake! 
Pure  must  be  the  gifts  ye  offer. 

Fruits  that  Autumn  hath  purveyed ; 
With  the  wealth  the  fields  shall  proffer 

Should  your  sacrifice  be  made!" 

And  she  grasped  the  spear,  held  idle 

In  the  huntsman's  brawny  hand, 
With  the  wTapon  homicidal 

Traced  a  line  upon  the  sand ; 
Took  a  seed,  with  strength  prolific, 

From  the  wheat-beards  of  her  wreath. 
Dropped  it  in  the  rill  vivific, — 

Straight  the  germ  swelled  in  its  sheath. 


46 


And  at  once  the  pround  was  flecked  with 

Blades  of   tender  sprinpinj;  p;reeii ; 
Lo!  as  they  pa/.ed.  the  earth  was  decked  with 

WavincT   fields   of   polden    sheen ! 
Then  she  blessed  the  crops  perfected, 

First  a  sheaf  herself  did  make, 
For  her  hearth  the  field-stone  selected. 

And  the  p;oddess  smilinp;  spake: 

"Father  Zeus,  oh,  thou  who  reignest 

Over  all   the  gods  on  high, 
If  this  sacrifice  thou  deignest 

To  accept,  vouchsafe  reply. 
And  these  most  unhappy  mortals, 

Who  wot  not  thy  majesU', 
Open  thou  for  them  the  portals, 

That  their  god  they  now  may  see!" 

And  Zeus  heard  his  sister's  pleading 

On    his   throne   above    the  world. 
From  aloft,   her  prayer  heeding, 

Straight   his   thunderbolt   he   hurled : 
Hurtling  fire  from  heaven  descended. 

Set  the  leaping  flames  alight, 
And,  where  high  the  smoke  ascended. 

Soared  his  eagle,  swift  of  flight! 

Moved  by  this  wonder  the  horde  perturbated 

At  the  feet  of  the  goddess  bent  low, 
Their  barbarian  souls  agitated 

By  humanit>'s  earliest  glow! 
Casting  aside  their  weapons  all  gor\', 

Minds  darkly  sealed  they  open,  and  hearts, 
Heeding  the  teachings  admonitory- 

Which  the  gracious  Queen  imparts. 

From  their  thrones  in  quick  succession 

Came  each  goddess,  aye,  and  god  ; 
Themis  led   the  long  procession, 

47 


And  with  her  impartial  rod 
His  just  dues  to  each  she  meted, 

Set  the  stone  where  bounds  confine, 
And  as  valid  witness  greeted 

Styx  mysterious  and  divine. 

Vulcan  left  his  forges  glowing, 

He,  the  son  of  Zeus,  in  play 
How  to  fashion  vessels  knowing; 

Artisan  in  bronze  and  clay. 
How  to  use  the  tongs  expounding. 

With  his  leathern  bellows'  aid 
And  with  hammer  strokes  resounding, 

First  of  all  a  plough  he  made. 

And  Minerva,  tall  and  stately. 

With  her  mighty  spear  in  hand, 
Lifts  her  voice,  resounding  greatly. 

And  commands  the  heavenly  band ; 
She  would  rear  on  firm  foundations 

Wallsi  a  shelter  strong  to  be, 
To  unite  the  severed  nations 

In  a  league  of  amity. 

And  she  leads  the  way  imperious 

O'er  the  softly  swelling  plain, 
And  the  boundary-god  mysterious 

Follows  closely  in  her  train. 
Thus  the  sacred  precincts  pacing. 

Over  wooded  hill  and  dale. 
Eke  the  river's  torrent  racing 

She  includes  within  the  pale. 

All  the  nymphs  and  sylphids  sprightly 

That  in  Huntress  Dian's  train. 
Coursing  though  the  forest  lightly. 

Cast  their  hunting  spears  amain, — 
One  and  all  they  come,  and  waxes 

Loud  the  mirth,  as  helping  all, 
Busily  they  ply  their  axes. 

And  the  fir-trees  crashing  fall. 
48 


From  his  \vater\-  realm  arises, 

Crowned  with   reeds,  the  river  god. 
To  their  place  the  trunks  he  prizes. 

At  Minerva's  heck  and  nod; 
And  the  Hours  that  run  so  swiftly. 

Scantly-kirtled,  do  their  part, 
And   the  rupged  boles  are  deftly 

Smoothed  and   fashioned  by  their  art. 

Neptune  also  cometh,  hasting, — 

With  his  mighty  trident's  stroke 
Granite  pillars  everlasting 

From  the  ribs  of   Earth  hath  broke ; 
Tosses  them  in  grip  gigantic 

High  in  air,  like  to  a  ball, 
And  with  Hermes,  nimbly  antic. 

Piles  the  ramparts  of  the  wall. 

Rut  Apollo  from  his  golden 

Lyre  evokes  sweet  harmony, 
And   the  sweep  of  measures  molten. 

And  the  power  of  melody ; 
While  the  ninefold  cadence  ringing 

Of  the  Muses,  swells  the  tone 
Rhythmic  to  their  tuneful  singing 

Stone  is  fitted  unto  stone. 

And  the  gateway's  ample  portals 

Kybele  doth   set  aright. 
Fixes  bolts  'gainst  hostile  mortals, 

And  the  locks  that  close  them  tight. 
Swift,  when  godlike  strength  combineth, 

Lo!  the  wondrous  task  is  done, 
And  the  temple's  beauty  shineth 

\Vith  the  glon-  of  the  sun. 

Juno  with  a  wreath  of  myrtle 

Decks  the  fairest  maiden  there. 
And  she  leads  her,  in  her  kirtle, 

49 


To  the  youth  most  debonair. 
Venus  and  the  Boy-god  offer 

To  adorn  the  couple  fair, 
All  the  gods  their  bounties  proffer 

To  the  first  new-wedded  pair. 

And  the  people,  songs  reciting, 

By  the  gods  are  ushered  in. 
Through  the  gates  that  ope  inviting 

Where  the  fane  of  Zeus  is  seen — 
As  High  Priestess  office  holding, 

Ceres  doth  oblation  make, 
Hands  in  benediction  folding. 

To  the  people  thus  she  spake: 

"Free,  the  gods  do  reign  in  heaven, 

And  the  beasts  hold  freedom  dear. 
Though  their  breasts  be  passion-riven, 

Nature's  Law"  they  yet  revere. 
Man,  alone  of  all  creation. 

With  his  fellow  must  unite, 
And  in  such  association 

Freedom  shall  he  know,  and  might!" 

Ears  of  the  wheat  for  the  garland  you're  wreathing 

Take,  and  the  dark-blue  cyanas  between, 
Joy  full  as  pure  as  the  air  that  you're  breathing 

Fill  your  hearts  as  you  w^elcome  the  Queen ! 
For  she  gave  man  his  peaceful  dwelling 

Made  him  live  with  his  neighbor  content: 
In   her  praise  lift  your  voices  swelling, 

The  World-Mother  beneficent! 


L.  B.  T.  K. 


THE  GLOVE 

In  his  garden  for  lion-baiting, 

The  mimic  fight  awaiting. 
Sat  Francis  the  King; 

50 


And  the  peers  of  his  realm  surround  him, 
In  the  balcony's  curve,  around   him, 
Of  ladies,  a  beauteous  ring. 

And  when  his  hand  he  waveth 

A  den  wide  open  caveth. 

Whence  with  slow,  majestic  walk, 

A  lion  doth  stalk. 

In  silence  profound 

Looks  round, 

His  mane  then  shaketh. 

And  a  yawn  he  fetches. 

His  limbs  he  stretches. 

And  his  ease  he  taketh. 

And  the  King  again  beckons; 

Another  of  the  keeps 

At  once  gapes  wide. 

From  whence  leaps 

In  fur}-  careering, 

A  tiger  pied. 

When  he  sees  the  lion  hoar. 

With  a  roar. 

He  lashes  the  air 

With  his  tail,  and  lays  bare 

His  fangs,   with   tongue  appearing; 

And  circles  shy 

Where  the  lion  doth  lie. 

Purring  loudly ; 

Then  lays  him  down  proudly 

Beside  the  lion. 

And  the  King  again  beckons; 

At  once  two  gates  are  opened  as  one 

And  forth  two  leopards  madly  run, 

And  rush  with  lust  of  blood  and  hate 

At   the  tiger  straight ; 

Who  seizes  them  in  his  paws  gigantic; 

But  the  lion   lifts  his  head, 

51 


Roars  once,  and  in  dread 
They  cease  their  attacks 
And  lie  down  in  their  tracks, 
Though  for  blood  and  combat  frantic. 

And  a  glove  from  the  balustrade, 
From  the  hand  of  a  beauteous  maid 
Falls  twixt  the  lion  and  tiger-cat, 
Just  where  she  sat. 

And  to  her  knight,  in  mocking  guise, 
The  lady  turns,  and  speaks  this  wise: 
"Sir  Knight,  and  if  so  hot  is  your  love 
As  you  do  swear  at  every  hour, 
Why,  I  pray  you,  go  pick  up  my  glove!" 

And  this  knight,  of  knighthood  the  flower, 

Descends  to  the  den  of  terror, 

He   walks   in   boldly, 

And  from  the  midst  of  the  beasts  he  coldly 

Picks  up  the  glove,  without  an  error. 

And  all  the  knights  and  ladies  are  gazing 

With  fear  and  awe  at  this  deed  amazing. 

And  calmly  he  brings  back  the  glove; 

And  every  one  in  praise  to  him  tumeth. 

But  with  the  looks  of  a  gentle  dove — 

A  promise  of  her  love — 

The  lady  waits  as  he  returneth. 

And  he  casts  the  glove  full  in  her  face : 

"No  thanks.  Lady,  do  I  crave  from  your  grace!' 

And  thenceforth  her  love  he  spurneth. 

L.  B.  T.  K. 


52 


POEMS  BY 
VARIOUS   GERMAN   AUTHORS 


TWO  POEMS 

By    Fried  rich    Riickert 

He  came  to  meet  me 

In  rain  ami  tliuiuler; 

My  heart  Vain  heating 

In  timid  wonder: 

Could  I  guess  whether 

Thenceforth  together 

Our  path   should    run,   so   long  asunder? 

He  came  to  meet  me 

In   rain  and  thunder, 

With  guile  to  cheat  me, — 

My  heart  to  plunder. 

Was't  mine  he  captured? 

Or  his  I  raptured  ? 

Half-way  both  met,  in  hliss  and  wonder! 

He  came  to  meet  me 

In   rain   and   thunder: 

Spring-blessings  greet  me 

Spring-blossoms  under. 

What  though  he  leave  me? 

No  partings  grieve  me, — 

No  path  can  lead  our  hearts  asunder! 

BARBAROSSA 

The  ancient  Barbarossa, 
Fried  rich,  the  Kaiser  great. 

Within  the  castle-cavern 
Sits  in  enchanted  state. 

He  did  not  die;  but  ever 
Waits  in  the  chamber  deep, 

Where  hidden  under  the  castle 
He  sat  himself  to  sleep. 

55 


The  splendor  of  the  Empire 
He  took  with  him  away, 

And  back  to  earth  will  bring  it 
When  dawns  the  promised  day. 

The  chair  is  ivory  purest 
Whereof  he  makes  his  bed ; 

The  table  is  of  marble 

Whereon  he  props  his  head. 

His  beard,   not  flax,   but  burning 
With  fierce  and  fiery  glow 

Right  through  the  marble  table 
Beneath  his  chair  does  grow. 

He  nods  in  dreams,  and  winketh 
With  dull,  half-open  eyes. 

And  once  an  age  he  beckons 
A  page  that  standeth  by. 

He  bids  the  boy  in  slumber: 
"O  dwarf,  go  up  this  hour, 

And  see  if  still  the  ravens 
Are  flying  round  the  tower. 

"And  if  the  ancient  ravens 
Still  wheel  above  us  here, 

Then  must  I  sleep  enchanted 
For  many  a  hundred  year." 

SIX  POEMS 

By  Ludwig   Uhland 

THE  MOUNTAIN  BOY 

A  herd-boy  on  the  mountain's  brow, 

I  see  the  castles  all  below. 

The  sunbeam  here  is  earliest  cast 

56 


And  by  my  side  it  lingers  last — 
I  am  the  boy  of  the  mountain! 

The  mother-house  of  streams  is  here — 
I  drink  them  in  their  cradles  clear; 
From  out  the  rock  they  foam  below, 
I  spring  to  catch  them  as  they  go ! 
I  am  the  boy  of  the  mountain ! 

To  me  belongs  the  mountain's  iiound, 
Where  gathering  tempests  march  around  ; 
But  though  from  north  and  south  they  shout, 
Above  them  still  my  song  rings  out — 
"I  am  the  boy  of  the  mountain!" 

Below  me  clouds  and  thunders  move; 
I   stand  amid   the  blue  above, 
I  shout  to  them  with  fearless  breast: 
"Go  leave  my  father's  house  in  rest!" 
I  am  the  boy  of  the  mountain! 

And  when  the  loud  bell  shakes  the  spires 
And   flame  aloft  the  signal-fires, 
I  go  below  and  join  the  throng, 
And  swing  my  sword  and  sing  my  song: 
"I  am  the  boy  of  the  mountain!" 

THE  thrp:e  songs 

King  Siegfried  sat  in  his  lofty  hall: 
"\'e  harpers!  who  sings   the  best  song  of  all?" 
Then  a  youth  stepped   forth  with  a  scornful   lip, 
The  harp  in  his  hand,  and  the  sword  at  his  hip. 

"Three  songs  I   know ;  but  this  first  song 

Thou,  O  King!  hast  forgotten  long: 

Thou    hast    stabbed    my    brother    with    murderous 

hand, — 
Hau  "^tabbed  my  brother  with  murderous  hand ! 

57 


"The  second  song  I  learned  aright 
In  the  midst  of  a  dark  and  stormy  night: 
Thou  shalt  fight  with  me  for  life  or  death, — 
Must  fight  with  me  for  life  or  death!" 

On  the  banquet-table  he  laid  his  harp, 
And  they  both  drew  out  their  swords  so  sharp ; 
And  they  fought  in  the  sight  of  the  harpers  all. 
Till  the  King  sank  dead  in  the  lofty  hall. 

"And  now  for  the  third,  the  proudest,  best! 
I  shall  sing  it,  sing  it,  and  never  rest: 
King  Siegfried  lies  in  his  red,  red  blood, — 
Siegfried  lies  in  his  red,  red  blood!" 

THE  GARDEN  OF  ROSES 

Of  the  beautiful  Garden  of  Roses 
I  will  sing,  with  your  gracious  leave. 

There    the    dames   walked    forth    at    morning. 
And  the  heroes  fought  at  eve. 

"My  Lord   is  King  of  the  countr}^ 
But  I  am  the  Garden's  Queen; 

His  crown  with  the  red  gold  sparkles, 
And  mine  with  the  rose's  sheen. 

"So  hear  me,  ye  youthful  gallants. 

My  favorite  guardsmen  three; 
The  garden  is  free  to  the  maidens, 

To  the  knights  it  must  not  be. 

"They  would  trample  my  beautiful  roses. 
And  bring  me  trouble  enow," — 

Said  the  Queen,  as  she  walked  in  the  morning, 
With  the  garland  on  her  brow. 

Then  went  the  three  young  gallants 
And  guarded  the  gate  about; 

58 


And  peacefully  blossomed   the  roses 
And  sent  their  odors  out. 

Now  canu-  three  lair  yoiiii^  maidens, 

Vir<::ins  that  knew  not  sin: 
"Ve  fTiiardsmen,  ye  jzallant  three  guardsmen, 

(^pen,  and  let  us  in !" 

And  when  they  had  gathered  the  roses, 
They  spake,  with  looks  forlorn : 

"What  makes  our  hands  so  bloody 
Is  it  the  prick  of  the  thorn?" 

And  still  the  three  younj];  gallants 

Guarded  the  gate  about, 
And   peacefully   blossomed   the   roses. 

And  sent  their  odors  out. 

Now  came  upon  prancing  stallions 
Three  lawless  knights,  and  cried : 

"Ye   guardsmen,    ye    surly    three    guardsmen. 
Open  the  portal  wide!" 

"The  portal  is  shut  and  bolted: 

Our  naked  swords  will  teach 
That  the  price  of  the  roses  is  costly ; 

Ye  must  pay  a  wound  for  each !" 

Then   fought  the  knights  and   the  gallants. 
But  the  knights  had  the  victory'. 

And  the  roses  were  torn  and  trampled. 
And  died  with  the  guardsmen  three. 

And  when  the  evening  darkened, 

The  Queen  came  by  with  her  train : 

"Now  that  my  roses  arc  trampled 
And   my  beautiful   guardsmen  slain, 

"I  will  lay  them  on  leaves  of  roses, 
59 


And  bur\'  them  solemnly: 
And  where  was  the  Garden  of  Roses, 
The  Garden  of  Lilies  shall  be. 

"But  who,  will  watch  my  lilies, 
When  their  blossoms  open  white? 

By  day  the  sun  shall  be  sentr>^ 

And  the  moon  and  the  stars  by  night!' 

BERTRAN  DE  BORN 

Yonder  now  in  ashes  smoulders 

Autafort  upon  its  height, 

And  its  lord  is  brought,  a  prisoner, 

Straight  into  the  monarch's  sight: 

"Art  thou  he  whose  songs  our  people 

To  rebellion  did  incite. 

For  whose  sake  our  children  gladly 

Stood  against  their  sire  in  fight?" 

"Stands  before  us  he  who  boasted 

In   exultant,  vaunting  strain, 

That  in   direst  need  sufficient 

Was  the  moiety  of  his  brain  ? 

Now  the  moiety  hath  not  saved  thee, 

Use  the  whole,  nor  use't  in  vain; 

Let  it  build  anew  thy  castle, 

And   thy   fetters  break   in   twain!" 

"As  thou  sayest.  King  and  master, 

I  am  he,  Bertran  de  Born, 

Who  with  songs  hath  made  rebellious 

Perigueux,  Montfort,  Comborn, 

Who  hath  been,  most  might}^  monarch, 

In  thy  flesh  a  constant  thorn. 

For  the  love  of  whom  thy  children 

Have  the  royal  anger  borne. 


60 


"In  thy  palace  sat  thy  daughter. 
Beautiful,  a  duke's  fair  bride, 
And  my  envoy  stood  before  her. 
Unto  whom  I  did  confide 
Songs  that  told  her  poet's  longing. 
Songs  that  once  had   been   her  pride, 
Till  she  wept  upon  her  bridal 
And  her  tears  would  not  be  dried. 

"In  the  olive's  slumbrous  shadow- 
Best  of  all  thy  sons  lay  there: 
XNTien  he  heard  my  war-songs  ringing, 
Up  he  sprang,  to  do  and  dare. 
Quiclvly  saddled  was  his  charger. 
And  his  standard  I  did  bear 
When  at  Montfort's  gates  an  arrow 
Laid  him  low,  so  young  and  fair! 

"In  my  arms  he  lay  expiring; 

Sharper  than  his  wound  could  be 

\Vas  the  anguish  of  his  spirit, — 

He  was  dying,  cursed  by  thee! 

And  he  stretched  his  right  hand  towards  thee 

Over  valleys,  hills  and  sea; 

When  thy  hand  in  answer  clasped  not 

Mine  in  death  once  more  pressed  he. 

"Then,  like  Autafort  up  yonder. 
Broke  m>'  spirit  when  he  fell ; 
Not  the  whole,  not  yet  the  moict>' 
Had   I, — sword   nor  minstrel's  spell. 
Easy  'twas  the  arm  to  fetter 
When  the  mind  was  weak  as  well ; 
Now  my  strength  is  gone  forever, 
Thou  hast  heard  its  funeral  knell!" 

Spake  with  bended  head  the  monarch : 
"Thou  didst  lead  my  son  astray, 
Ca5t  a  glamor  o'er  my  daughter, 
6i 


And  my  heart  hast  touched  to-day! 
Thine,  thou  friend  of  the  departed, 
Be  the  pardon  he  did  pray. 
Loose  his  fetters!     Of  thy  spirit 
I  have  caught  a  single  ray!" 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

THE  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA 

Hast  seen  the  castle  lifting 
Its  walls  high  o'er  the  sea? 
Golden  and  rosy  shifting 
The  clouds  float  lazily. 

It  is  fain  to  look  down,  and  bendeth 
To  the  mirrored  depths  below ; 
It  is  fain  to  rise  and  extendeth 
Its  height  in  the  sunset  glow. 

"I've  seen  the  castle  lifting 
Its  walls  high  o'er  the  sea, 
And  fog-wreaths  past  it  drifting; 
The  moon  shone  mistily." 

Were  the  winds  and  the  billows  leaping, 
Sparkling,  blithe  and  gay? 
Were  the  halls  high  revel  keeping. 
With  carols  and  roundelay? 

"The  billows  and  winds  were  sleeping, 
Hushed  were  all  sounds  below ; 
In  the  hall  were  dirges  and  weeping. 
Listening  my  tears  did  flow." 

Did'st  thou  up  yonder  behold  them. 
The  king  and  his  royal  spouse? 
Did   the  crimson   mantles  enfold   them? 
Were  the  crowns  of  gold  on  their  brows? 


62 


WvTC  they  nor  twixt  them  leacHnp; 
A  inaiden  womlrous  fair, 
Glorious,  the  sun  excecdinji, 
Radiant  in  golden  hair? 

"I  saw  that  couple  pacinp:, 
Black-vested  cap-a-pie ; 
No  crowns  their  hrows  were  gracing; — 
The  maid  I  did  not  see." 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

FOUR  POEMS 

B\'    Joseph    von    Eichendorf 

DISAPPOINTMENT 

I  rested  from  my  wand'ring, 

Full-orbed   the  moon  arose, — 

Afar,  a  line  of  silver. 

Where  ancient  Tiber  flows. 

Castles  crowned  the  mountains, 

Shining  in  moonlit  air, 

And  gardens  with  gurgling  fountains, — 

Italia!  thou  art  so  fair! 

And   when   the  night  was  failing. 
All  earth  was  gladsome  and  bright, 
I  spied  a  shepherd  scaling 
The  rock  at  a  dizzy  height. 
I  asked  with  senses  reeling: 
"Can  I  walk  to  Rome  to-day?" 
He,   scarce  a  laugh  concealing, 
"Have  you  lost  your  wits,  man,  pray?" 
From  a  vineyard  a  maid  was  peeping. 
Through   the  leaves  her  bright  eyes  gleam, — 
While  my  heart  within  me  was  weeping, — 
For  it  was  nought  but  a  dream! 

L.  B.  T.  K. 


63 


THE  POET'S  FATE 

For  all,  my  heart  rejoicing, 

With  faithful  warmth  must  glow; 

The  grief  of  all  still  voicing, 

For  all,  my  flowers  blow, — 

And  when  my  songs  reward  are  earning 

My  body  will  to  dust  be  turning! 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

THE  CROSS-WAYS 

By  starlight  oft  at  the  cross-ways  I  hark. 
When  the  fires  in  the  forest  are  dying, 
And  where  afar  a  dog  first  doth  bark 
Hither  my  lover  is  hieing. 

"And  when  the  gray  dawn  broke  in  the  glade 
A  wildcat  from  cover  came  creeping; 
Through  her  nut-brown  pelt  I  shot  the  jade, — 
How  far  she  sprang,  overleaping!" 

Alas  for  the  pelt,  'tis  lost  for  aw^hile ! 
My  love  must  be  like  his  fellows. 
Brown,  with  mustachios  Hungarian  style, 
And  a  heart  that  the  vagrant  life  mellows! 

LONGING 

In  the  glimmer  of  golden  starlight 

I  stood  at  the  casement  alone, 
And  heard  thro'  the  silent  far  night 

A  postilion's  bugle  tone. 
My  heart  in  my  bosom  was  burning 

And  longing  o'erpowered  me  quite: 
"Ah!   would   that  I   could   he  journeying 

In  the  glorious  summer  night!" 


64 


Two  youthful  wanderers  wended 

Ihcir  way  down   the  mountain  side, 
As  thcN  fared,  their  voices  blended 

In  the  silence  far  and  wide. 
They  sanp:  of  dizzy  abysses, 

Where  forests  murmur  low, 
Of   towering  precipices 

And  cataracts  fed  by  the  snow. 

Of  statues  smothered  in  flowers 

They  sang,  and  of  gardens  at  noon 
Still  dusky  with  tangled  bowers, — 

Of  a  palace  under  the  moon. 
Where  a  maid  at  the  window  listens 

For  her  lover's  lute,  by  the  light 
1  hat  in  drowsy  fovmtains  glistens, 

In  the  glorious  summer  night! 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

FOUR  POEMS 

By   Emanual  Geibel 

PERGOLESE 

Now  at  length  his  work  is  fini=;hed. 
And  with  piety  undiminished 
Kneels  th''  Ma.^ter  at  God's  throne: 
The  cathedral's  statel\'   arches 
Pulsate  vith  the  swelling  marches, 
Choral  song  and  organ  tone: 

Stabat  mater  dolorosa 
Juxta  crucem  lacrymosa, 
Dum  pendebat  fHius, 
Cujus  animam   ^emcnti'm 
Contristatam  ac  dolentem 
Pertransivit   f^lad'tus. 

And  the  Holy  Mother's  passion 
Strongly  moves  all  heart's  compassion — 

65 


Sounds  the  organ  deep  and  low ; 
But  in  music  heaven-descended 
Even  anguish  must  be  ended: 
Gentle  tears  begin  to  flow. 

Quis  est  homo  qui  nan  fleret 
Chris ti  matrem  si  videret 
In  tanto  suppUcio, 
Quis  non  posset  contristari 
Piam   matrem  contemplari 
Dolentem  cum  filio. 

Pious  tremors,  raptures  holy 
Now  enshroud  the  Master  wholly, 
Thoughts  of  death  both  sweet  and  mild, 
And  his  eyes  in  faith  upraising. 
To  the  altar  he  is  gazing, 
To  the  Virgin  undefiled. 

Virgo  virginum  praeclara, 
Mihi  jam  non  sis  amara, 
Fac  me  tecum  plangere, 
Fac  ut  partem  Christi  mortem 
Passionis   egy  sortem 
Et  plagas  recolere. 

Hark!  what  heavenly  strains  are  stealing, 
Mingled   with   the  organ's  pealing, 
On  the  wond'ring,  awestruck  throng — 
Seraphim  to  earth  descending 
Bear  him  into  bliss  unending, 
While   to   heaven   soars   his  song! 

Fac  me  cruce  custodiri, 
Morte  Christi  praemuniri, 
Confoveri  gratia; 
Quando    corpus    morietur 
Fac  ut  animae  donetur 
Paradisi  gloria! 


L.  B.  T.  K. 


66 


GOLDEN  BRIDGES 

Golden  bridges  shall  be 

All  my  songs  to  me, 

O'er   which    Love   may   wander 

Sweetest  child,  to  thee! 

And  the  dream-god's  pinions 
Every   night  shall   bear 
To  thy  loving  heart  me 
Joy  betide,  or  care! 


L.  B.  T.  K. 


SONG 


The  stately  water-lily 

Floats  o'er  the  blue  below, 

Its  leaves  are  flashing  and  glistening, 

Its  flower  is  white  as  snow. 

And    the   moon   above   in   heaven 
Pours  all  its  golden  light. 
Pours  all  its  rays  so  silent 
Into  her  bosom  white. 

A  snow-white  swan  in  circles 
Around  the  flower  floats; 
He  sings  so  sweet,  so  softly. 
His  love  to  her  devotes. 

He  sings  so  sweet,  so  softly. 
No  ear  that  song  can  withstand — 
O  flower,  snow-white  flower. 
That  song  dost  understand? 

L.  B.  T.  K. 


67 


TWO  KINGS 

Two  Kings  were  sitting  in  Orkadal, 
By  torchlight  glare  in  the  pillared  hall. 

The  minstrels  sang,  the  wine  foamed  high; 
The  Kings  looked  on  with  gloomy  eye. 

Up  spake  the  one:    "Give  me  the  fair, 
Blue  are  her  eyes,  and  golden  her  hair!" 

The  other  he  answered  with  angr}^  mien : 
"My  vow  is  recorded,  she  is  my  queen!" 

The  Kings  thereafter  spake  not  a  word, 

But  up  they  arose,  and  each  grasped  his  sword. 

And  out  they  stalked  from  the  lighted  hall, 
Where  the  snow  lay  deep  with  silent  fall. 

Bright  flashed  their  blades  by  the  castle  wall ; 
Two  Kings  lay  dead  in  Orkadal. 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

PRINCE  EUGENE 

By   Ferdinand   Freiltgrath 

Tents  and  outposts,  sentries  rounding! 
Danube's  banks  with  mirth  resounding! 
Round  the  tent-pegs  in  a  line 
Horses  grazing  on  their  tether; 
From  each  peaked  saddle  leather 
Swings  the  cavalry  carbine. 

Round  about  the  fires  camping. 
At  their  feet  the  horses  champing. 
Lies  the  Austrian  vedette. 


68 


Oti  their  cloaks  they  rest  together; 
From  each  busby  floats  a  feather, 
Captain  dices,  and  cx)rnet. 

Stretched  beside  his  horse  all  jaded 

( )ii  a  blanket  worn  and  faded 

All  alone  the  bugler  lay. 

"Leave  your  dice  and  cards  and   stories! 

Fighters  for  an  empire's  glories 

Will   enjoy  a  martial   lay!" 

"Of  last  week's  successful  action. 
For  the  army's  satisfaction 
I  have  made  a  seemly  verse: 
E'en  the  tune  is  my  invention, 
Therefore,  Whites  and  Reds,  attention  ! 
Listen  while  I  do  rehearse." 

Once  and  twice  and  thrice  the  measure 
In  a  low  voice  for  the  pleasure 
Of  those  troopers  bold  he  sang, 
And  the  last  time  when  he  ended 
Suddenly  their  voices  blended  ; 
Loud  and  full  the  chorus  rang: 

"Prince  Eugene,  our  knight  victorious!" 
Hi!  the  sound,  like  storm  uproarious 
Frights  the  Turk  within  his  trench. 
And  the  bugler,  his  mustachios  twisting. 
Strolls  apart  to  keep  his  trysting 
With  the  buxom  sutler's  wench. 

L.  B.  r.  I 


69 


FOUR  POEMS 

By  Heinrich  Heine 
SONG 

Thou  hast  diamonds  and  pearls  and  jewels, 

Hast  all  the  heart  wishes,  in  store ; 
And  ah,  thou  hast  eyes  so  lovelj^ — 

My    darling,    what    would'st    thou    have    more? 

And  upon  thine  ej^es  so  lovely. 

That  pierce  my  heart  to  its  core, 
Uncounted  songs  have  I  written — 

My    darling,    what   would'st    thou    have    more? 

Alas,  with  thine  eyes  so  lovely 

Thou  hast  tortured  and  wounded  me  sore; 
Thine  eyes  have  compassed  my  view — 

My    darling,    what   would'st    thou    have    more? 

TO  THE  GANGES 

On  the  wing  of  Fancy  flying. 
Sweetheart,  I  bear  thee  with  me, 

To  a  wondrous  paradise  lying 
Where  Ganges  rolls  to  the  sea. 

A  garden  with  flowers  rosy  flushing 

Lies  steeped  in  moonlit  air; 
And   the  lotus  faintly  blushing. 

Awaits  its  sister  fair. 

The  violets  rustling  and  spreading 

Peer  out  at  the  stars  above, 
Roses  their  fragrance  are  shedding. 

And  whispering  tales  of  love! 


70 


I'he  timid   gazelles  arc  listening 

With  soft  and  eager  eyes, 
And  in  the  distance  glistening 

The  sacred  river  lies. 

At   the   foot  of  a  palm-tree   sinking, 
Where  shadows  darkest  seem, 

Of   Love  we'll  deep  be  drinking 
And  dream  a  rapturous  dream! 

L.  B.  r.  K. 

THE  GRENADIERS 

Two  grenadiers,  captured  in  Russian  Campaign, 
Toward   France  were  plodding  aweary; 
And   when    they   in   Germany  quarter  had    ta'en, 
Their  spirits  were  saddened  and  drearj-. 

For  there  the  sad  tidings  the)'  heard  in  dismay 
That  Victorj'  France  had  forsaken ; 
Dispersed   and  defeated  her  battle  array. 
And  the  Emperor,  the  Emperor  was  taken ! 

The  grenadiers  heard  it  dolefully, 
And  their  tears  were  beyond  restraining. 
And  one.  he  said:     "Ah,  woe  is  me! 
How  it  sets  my  wound  apaining!" 

The  other  said,  "it  is  the  end. 
And  I  would  die  with  you  gladly, 
But  wife  and  child  at  home  depend 
On  me.  or  they  fare  badly." 

"What  care  I   for  child,  what  care   I   for  w  Ife, 
By  greater  alarms  I  am  shaken  ; 
Let  them  go  and  beg,  if  they  care  for  lite — 
When  iny  Emperor,  my  Emperor  is  taken! 


71 


My  comrade  true,  one  boon  I  crave, 

For  I  will  soon  be  dying; 

Then  carry  my  body  to  France  for  a  grave, — 

In  the  soil  of  France  I'd  be  lying. 

The  cross  of  honor  \vith  its  red  band, 
Upon  my  breast  display  it ; 
And  place  my  gun  within  my  hand, 
My  sabre,  beside  me  lay  it. 

There  I'll  lie  and  listen  so  many  a  year 
A  sentry,  the  green  sod  under, 
Till  neighing  horses'  hoofbeats  I  hear, 
And  the  cannons'  volley  and  thunder. 

Then  rideth  my  Emperor  over  my  grave ; 

The  sabres  are  flashing  and  fending. 

Full  armed  I  will  rise  from  the  sleep  of  the  grave, 

My   Emperor,   my   Emperor   defending!" 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

THE  ASRA 

Daily  in  her  wondrous  beauty 
Did  the  daughter  of  the  sultan 
Walk  at  evening  by  the  fountain, 
Where  the  silver  waters  tinkle. 

Daily  did  the  slave  so  youthful 
Stand  at  evening  by  the  fountain. 
Where  the  silver  waters  tinkle ; 
Daily  grew  more  pale  and  paler. 

Then  one  evening  did  the  princess 
Thus  with  rapid  words  approach  him : 
"I  would  know  what  might  thy  name  be. 
Whence    thou    art,    and    what    thy    lineage?" 


72 


Ami  the  slave  thus  spake:     "My  name  is 
Mahomet;  I  come  from  Yemen, 
And  by  race  I  am  an  Asra, 
One  who  dieth  when  he  loveth!" 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

A  SONG 

By   Martin    Grasf 

One  midsummer   night  hand-in-hand   we  twain 

Sprang  through  the  flames  so  lightly 

That    the    fire's    dread    might    clutch    uur    dress    in 

vain, — 
Our  hearts  they  blazed  up  brightly. 

One  midsummer  night  did  a  pouring  rain 
Quench  all  the  iitful  flashes: — 
In  our  hot  delight  lip  to  lip  we  strain — 
Down  sank  the  fire  in  ashes. 

I  stand  upon  the  moorland  drear 
And  silence  broodcth  far  and  near. 
The  night  falls  darkly  o'er  the  weald. 
My  soul  is  fain  to  roam  afield. 

THE  WOMEN  OF  WEINSPERG 

By    Adalbert  voti   Chamisso 

It  was  the  good  King  Konrad  with  all  his  army  lay 
Before  the  ttnvn  of  Weinsperg  full   many  a  weary 

day. 
The  Guelph   at  last  was  vanquished,   but  still   the 

town  held  out. 
The  bold   and   fearless  burghers   they   fought   with 

courage  stout. 

But  then  came  hunger!  hunger,  that  was  a  grievous 

guest ; 
They  went  to  ask   for  favor,   but  anger  met   their 

quest. 

73 


"Through   you   the   dust   hath  bitten    full   many   a 

worthy  knight, 
And   if  your  gates  you  open,  the  sword  shall  you 

requite!" 

Then  came  the  women,  praying:  "Let  be  as  thou 
hast  said, 

Yet  give  us  women  quarter,  for  we  no  blood  have 
shed!" 

At  sight  of  these  poor  wretches  the  hero's  anger 
failed, 

And  soft  compassion  entered  and  in  his  heart  pre- 
vailed. 

"The  women  shall  be  pardoned,  and  each  with  her 

shall  bear 
As  much  as  she  can  carrj'  of  her  most  precious  ware ; 
The   women   with   their   burdens   unhindered    forth 

shall  go. 
Such  is  our  royal  judgment — we  swear  it  shall  be 


At  early  dawn  next  morning,  ere  yet  the  east  was 
bright. 

The  soldiers  saw  advancing  a  strange  and  wondrous 
sight ; 

The  gates  swung  slowly  open,  and  from  the  van- 
quished town 

Forth  swayed  a  long  procession  of  women  weighted 
down ; 

For  perched  upon  her  shoulders  each  did  her  hus- 
band bear, — 

That  was  the  thing  most  precious  of  all  her  house- 
hold  ware. 

"We'll  stop  the  treacherous  women!"  cried  all  with 
one  intent; 

The  chancellor  he  shouted:  "This  was  not  what 
we  meant!" 

74 


iMir    when    they    told    Kin>:    Konraii,    the    ^ood    kin^ 

lauphed  aloud  ; 
"If  this  was  not  our  incaninp;,  the\\c  made  it  so," 

he  vowed. 
"A  promise  is  a  promise,  f)ur  lt)\al  word  \\a>  pledpc; 
It  stands,  and  no  Lord  Chancellor  may  quibble  or 

may   hedge." 

Thus  was  the  royal  scutcheon  kept  free  from  stain 

or  blot! 
The  story  has  descended  from  days  now  half-forp:ot ; 
'Twas'i^eleven  forty  this  happened,  as  I've  heard. 
The    flower  of   German   princes   thouf^ht   shame   to 

break  his  word. 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

ADELAIDA 

By  Frudrich  von  Alattliisson 

Lonely   wanders   thy   friend    in    the  vernal    j:;arden ; 
Softl\-   streams   the   ma^ic   light   around    him, 
Sifting   through    the   swaying   leaves   and    blossoms, 
Adelaida! 

In  the  mirrored  lake,  in  snows  eternal, 
In  the  golden  clouds  of  Day  departing. 
In  the  starr\-  heavens  shines  thine  image, 
Adelaida! 

Twilight   zephyrs   in   tender   foliage   rustle, 
Lilies  of  the  valley  softly  tinkle. 
Wavelets  whi«per  and   nightingales  warble — 
Adelaida ! 

On  my  grave  one  day  shall  bloom,  oh!  wonder, 
From   the  ashes  of  m\-  heart  a  flower, 
On  whose  every  purple  leaf  thou  shinest, 
Adelaida! 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

75 


THE  GRAVE  OF  ALARIC 
By  August,  Count  Platen 

On  Busento's  grassy  banks  a  muffled  chorus  echoes 

nightly, 
While  the  swirling  eddies  answer,  and  the  wavelets 

ripple  lightly. 

Up  and  down  the  river,  shades  of  Gothic  warriors 

watch  are  keeping, 
For   they   mourn   their  people's  hero,   Alaric,  with 

sobs  of  weeping. 

All  too  soon  and  far  from  home  and  kindred  here 

to  rest  they  laid  him 
While  in  youthful  beauty  still  his  flowing  golden 

curls  arrayed  him. 

And  along  the  river's  bank  a  thousand  hands  with 

eager  striving 
Labored   long,   another  channel   for   Busento's   tide 

contriving. 

Then  a  cavern  deep  they  hollowed  in  the  river-bed 

depleted. 
Placed  therein  the  dead  king,  clad  in  proof,  upon 

his  charger  seated. 

O'er  him  and  his  proud  array  the  earth  they  filled 

and  covered  loosely 
So  that  on  their  hero's  grave  the  water-plants  would 

grow  profusely. 

And  again  the  course  they  altered  of  Busento's  wa- 
ters troubled ; 

In  its  ancient  channel  rushed  the  current, — foamed, 
and  hissed,  and  bubbled. 


76 


And  the  Goths  in  chorus  chanted: — "Hero,  sleep! 

thy  fame  immortal 
Roman  greed  shall  ne'er  in'^ult,  nor  break  thy  tomb's 

most  sacred  portal !" 

Thus  they  sang,  and  paeans  sounded  high  above  the 

fipht's  commotion ; 
Onward    roll,   Busento's  waves,   and   bear  them   to 

the    farthest   ocean ! 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

TRANSYLVANIAN   HUNTER'S  SONG 

I  hunt  the  stag  in  forests  deep. 

The  roe-buck  in  the  brake. 

The  caple  on  her  eyrie  steep. 

The  wild-duck  in  the  lake ; 

No  place  could  shelter  pive,  in  fine, 

Whene'er  my  rifle  spoke. 

And  \ct  this  stony  heart  of  mine 

Hath   felt   Love's  gentle  joke. 

Oft  have  I  camped  in  winter  time 

In  drear  and  stormy  night. 

And  covered  o'er  with  snow  and  rime 

A  rock  my  bed  I  bight. 

On  thorns  I've  slept  as  if  on  down, 

The  north  wind  passed  me  by — 

And  \et  this  callous  breast  of  mine 

Could  not   Love's  might  defy. 

Mv   fellow   is  the  falcon  bold, 

The  wolf's  my  mate  in  fight; 

The  baying  hounds  my  matins  tolled, 

Hu7,zas  begin   my   night. 

A  sprig  of  fir  in  lieu  of  flower 

Adorns   my    blood -smirched    cap, 

And  yet  once  Love  with  sovereign  power 
My  wild  heart's  strength  did  sap! 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

77 


SWORDING,  THE  SAXON  DUKE 
By  Egon  Ebert 

The  Saxon  Duke,  great  Swording,  sat  feasting  in  his 

hall, 
The  rarest  wines  were  sparkling  in  cups  of  iron  all, 
Delicious  foods  were  passing  on  iron  platters  round, 
The  iron  breastplates  clanking,  they  made  a  fear- 
some sound. 

And  Frotho,  King  of  Denmark,  sat  at  the  board,  a 

guest. 
He  marvelled  as  he  saw  that  the  Duke  in  chains 

was  dressed. 
That  iron  chains  were  hanging  about  his  arms  and 

neck. 
And  iron  clasps  and  brooches  his  sable  habit  deck. 

"Now  tell   me  what  this  meaneth.   Lord   Brother, 

prithee,  say, 
Why  was  a  guest  I  bidden  to  this  most  grim  array  ? 
When  I  rode  blithely  hither  from  out  my  Danish 

hold 
I  hoped  to  find  j^ou  fairly  decked  out  with  wealth 

of  gold." 

"Sir  King,  the  slave  wears  iron,  while  gold  is  for 

the  free. 
Such  is  the  Saxon  custom,  and  so  if  needs  must  be! 
The  Saxon's  arm  you've  fettered  with  bonds  of  iron 

strong. 
For  if  your  chains  were  golden,  they  had  not  held  us 

long. 

"And  yet  methinks  these  fetters  may  broken  be,  in 

sooth. 
By  high  and  noble  courage,  and  honest  faith  and 

truth. 
By  these  we'll  win  our  freedom,  though  hundredfold 

in  chains, 

78 


By  these  our  oaths  we'll  sever,  wipe  f)ut  disgraceful 
stains!" 

Thus  spake    the    Duke,   and   straifzhtway   appeared 

within  the  hall 
Twelve  Saxon  knights  in  sable,  and  bearin<^  torches 

all : 
They  stood   in  silence,  waitinj:  for  Sword ing's  low 

command, 
Then   forth   they  sprang,  and  swiftly,  each   lifting 

high  his  brand. 

And   soon   arose   a  clamor,   that   guest   and   master 

note. 
Like    fire    crackling,    snapping,    upon    their    ears    it 

smote. 
And  soon  the  air  grew  stifling  and   hot  within   the 

hall, 
"The   hour  has  come!"   thus   hoarsely   the   knights 

they  murmured   all. 

The  King  would  flee  in  terror,  the  Duke,  he  holds 

him  fast, 
"Nav  stav  thou  here  and  let  us  thy  courage  prove  at 

last! 
If  thou  against  yon  mighty  opponent  hold'st  thine 

own. 
Thine  be  the  Saxon's  country',  thine  be  the  Saxon 

throne." 

And    hotter   vet,   and    hotter,   it   grows   within    the 

hall. 
And  louder  yet,  and  louder,  without,  the  rafters  fall. 
And  brighter  yet,  and  brighter,  a  rosy  light  is  shed, 
And  breaking  through  the  portal,  devouring  flames 

do  spread. 

And  all   those  knights,  devoted  and   prayerful   bend 
the  knee. 

79 


"Lord,  to  our  souls  be  gracious,  that  here  them- 
selves set  free!" 

The  Duke,  he  looks  on  calmly,  the  fire  advances 
fleet, 

The  King,  from  fear  nigh  fainting,  he  drags  upon 
his  feet. 

"Look  up,  thou  mighty  victor!  Thou  coward,  ter- 
ror feel! 

Thus  iron  bonds  we  loosen,  thus  melts  thy  strong- 
est steel!" 

He  speaks,  and  flames  devouring  soon  whelm  them 
one  and  all, 

Seize  Duke  and  King  together;  in  ruin  sinks  the 
hall. 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

THE  MILL 

Old   Folk-sons 

Up  yonder  on  the  mountain 

A  millwheel  turns  alway ; 

And  naught  but  love  it  grindeth 

All  night  till  break  of  day. 

The  mill,  alas!  is  broken. 

And  love  is  ended,  gone; 

God  have  thee  in  His  keeping,  love, 

For  I  must  wander  on ! 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

THE  WATCH  ON  THE  RHINE 

By  Max  Schneckenburger 

A  peal  like  thunder  calls  the  brave. 

With  clash  of  sword  and  sound  of  rave. 

To  the  Rhine,  the  Rhine,  the  German  Rhine! 

80 


Who  now  will  guard  the  river's  line? 
Dear  Fatherland,  no  fear  he  tiiine! 
Firm  stands  thy  guard   along  the  Rhine. 

A   hundred    thousand   hearts   beat   high, 
The  answer  flames  from  every  eye; 
The  German  youths  devoted  stand 
They  shield  the  holy  border-land. 
Dear  Fatherland,  no  fear  be  thine! 
Firm  stands  thy  guard  along  the  Rhine. 

And    though   my   heart   in   death   be  dumb, 

Still  thou  shalt  not  a  Frank  become! 

Rich,  as  in  water  thy  fair  flood 

Is  Germany  in   hero-blood. 

Dear  Fatherland,  no  fear  be  thine! 

Firm  stands  thy  guard  along  the  Rhine. 

He  sees  above   him   heaven's  blue  dome 
Whence  souls  of  heroes  watch  their  home 
And  vows,  with   battle's  pride  possessed: 
Be  German  Rhine  as  is  my  breast! 
Dear  Fatherland,  no  fear  be  thine! 
Firm  stands  thy  guard  along  the  Rhine. 

So  long  as  blood  shall  warm  our  veins, 
While  for  the  sword  one  hand  remains, 
One  arm  to  bear  a  gun, — no  more 
Shall   foot  of  foeman  tread   thy  shore! 
Dear  Fatherland,  no  fear  be  thine! 
Firm  stands  thy  guard  along  the  Rhine. 

The  oatli  resounds,  the  wave  rolls  by, 

The  banners  wave,  advanced  on  high  ; 

To  the  Rhine,  the  Rhine,  the  German  Rhine! 

We  all  will   guard  the  river's  line. 

Dear  Fatherland,   no  fear  be  thine! 

Firm  stands  thy  guard  along  the  Rhine. 


POEMS  BY 
VARIOUS  FRENCH  AUTHORS 


THREE  LYRICS  FROM  VICTOR   HUGO'S 
LEGENDE  DES  SIECLES 

SOLOMON 

I  am  the  king  \v  ho  mystic  power  commanded  ; 

1  built  the  Temple,  ruined  towns  supreme: 
Hiram,  my  architect,  and  Chares,  my  right-handed. 

Still  here  beside  me  dream. 

One  as  a  trowel,  one  as  a  sword,  was  given; 

I  let  them  plan,  and  what  they  did  was  well: 
My  breath  mounts  higher,  nearer  unto  heaven 

Than  Libyan  whirlwinds  swell ; — 

God  sometimes  feels  it.     Child  of  guilty  kisses. 
Vast,  gloomy  in  my  wisdom :  demons  shun 

To  take  between  high  heaven  and  their  abysses, 
A  judge  but  Solomon. 

I  make  men  tremble  and  believe  my  stor\'; 

Conquering,  they  part  and  follow  to  my  feast: 
As  king,  I  bear  down  mortals  with  the  glory, 

And  with  the  gloom  as  priest. 

Mine  was  of  festals  and  of  cups  the  vision, 
The   finger  writing  Mene    Tekel  then. 

And  war,  and  chariots,  clarions,  and  collision 
Of  horses  and  of  men. 

Grand  as  some  sullen  idol's  form  discloses, 
Mysterious  as  a  garden's  closed  retreat, 

^'et.  though  I  be  more  mighty  than  the  roses 
In  moons  of   May  are  sweet, 

Take  from  me  scepter  with   the  bright  gold   laden, 
My  throne,  the  archer  on  my  tower  above, 

But  men  shall  never  take,  O  sweet  young  maiden. 
From  out  mv  heart  its  love! 

85 


Men  shall  not  take  the  love,  O  virgin  purest, 
That  as  in  fountains  beams  to  mirror  thee. 

More  than  from  out  the  darkness  of  the  forest 
The  song-bird's  minstrelsy! 

MOSCHUS 

Bathe  ye,  O  Nymphs,  in  the  cool  forest-springs! 
Although  the  thicket  with  dull  voices  rings, 

And  in  its  rocks  the  eagle's  nest  finds  place, 
'Twas  ne'er  invaded  by  such  gathering  gloom 
As  grows  to  darkness,  and  will  yield  no  room 
To  nude  Neaera's  grace. 

Fair  is  Neaera,  pure,  and  glimmers  white. 
Transparent,  through  the  forest's  horrid  night; 

An  echo  dialogues  with  one  afar. 
Gossips  a  hive  with  fiowers  upon  the  leas, — 
What  saj^s   the  echo? — what   the  wandering  bees? 
She,  naked,   is  a  star! 

For,  when  thou  bathest,  starry  splendor  falls. 
Chaste  one,  on  thee,  with  vague  fear  that  appals 

And  beauty's  boldness  ever  must  imbue: 
In  shades  where  eye  of  ardent  faun  peers  now, 
To  show  thee  woman, — knowest,  Nesera,  thou, — 
Shows  thee  as  goddess  too! 

Though  man  be  darkened  by  the  high  king's  power. 
Above  my  head  I  here  have  built  a  bower 

With  boughs  of  elm  and  boughs  of  holly  green'; 
I  love  the  meadows,  woods,  the  unfettered  air, 
Neasra  Phyllodoxis,  and  the  fair 
Fond  idyl's  strain  serene. 

Though  here,  where  sleep  sometimes  our  lids  may 

The  distant  thunders  stray  from  hill  to  hill, — 
Though  spectral  lightnings  here  forever  shoot, 
86 


And  the  sky  threatens, — as  we  pace  along 
Is  it  forbiM  to  dream,  or  hear  the  song, 
Hotuixt  the  thunders,  or  a  Bute? 

THE   EARTH 

{"^4    fnu  of  the    btst    stanzas    {of    the    opcnint^ 
liyrnri]   in  thf  forni  and  nitttr  of  the  oris^inal."     B. 

T.) 

Glory  to  Earth ! — to  the  Dawn  where  God  is  seen ! 
To  tingling  eyes  that  ope  in  forest  green, 

To  flowers,  and  nests  the  Day  makes  bright ! 
Glon,-  to  nightly  gleams  of  snowy  hills, — 
To  the  blue  sky  which,  unexhausted,  spills 

Such  prodigal  morning  light! 


Earth  shows  the  harvest,  though  she  hides  the  gold. 
And  in  the  flying  seasons  doth  she  fold 

The  germs  of  seasons  that  shall  be, — 
Sends  birds  in  air  that  carol:     "Let  us  love!" 
She  founts  in  shadow,  while  on  hills  above 

Quivers  the  great  oak-tree. 


She  pays  to  each  his  due,  to  Day  Night's  hours, 
To  Night  the  Day,  the  herbs  to  rocks,  fruits  flowers; 

She  feedcth  all  she  does  create; 
When  men  are  doubtful,   trusts  in  her  the  tree, — 
O,  sweet  comparison,  shaming  Destiny, 

O  Nature,  holy,  great! 

Cradle  of  Adam  and  of  Yaphet  she 

And  then  their  tomb:  she  ordered  Tyre  to  be, 

Now  shorn  of  empire  and  of  kintjs. 
In  Rome  and  Sparta,  Memphis  of  old  fame. 


Whenever  Man  spake — and  the  silence  came, — 
The  loud  cicala  sings. 

And  why?     To  quiet  all  who  sleep  in  dust. 
And  why?     Because  the  apotheosis  must 

Succeed  the  ruin  and  the  wrong; 
After  the  "No!"  the  "Yes!"  be  spoken  then, 
After  the  silent  vanishing  of  men 

The  world's  mysterious  song. 

Earth's  friends  are  harvestmen ;  when  evening  falls 
She  fain  would  free  her  dark  horizon-walls 

From  the  keen  swarm  of  ravenous  crows. 
When    the    tired    ox   says:      "Home,   now,    let    us 

fare!" 
And  in  the  farmer's  hands,  returning  there, 

The  ploughshare-armor  glows. 

Incessant,  transient  blossoms  bear  her  sod ; 
They  never  breathe  the  least  complaint  to  God : 

Chaste  lilies,  vines  that  ripen  free. 
The  shivering  myrtles  never  send  a  cry 
From  winds  profane  up  to  the  sacred  sky, 

To  move  with  innocent  plea. 

SINCE  I'VE  PLACED  MY  LIP 

By   Victor  Hugo 

Since  at  thy  brimming  cup  I've  placed  my  lip ; 
Since  my  pale  brow  wnthin  thy  hands  I've  laid; 
Since  sometimes  I  the  fragrant  breath  did  sip 
Of  thy  soul,  perfume  now  swallowed  up  in  shade: — 

Since  to  me  'twas  given  to  hear  thee  speak  some- 
while 
The  words  wherein  the  heart's  sweet  mysterj'  lies; 
Since  I've  seen  thee  weep,  since  I've  seen  thee  smile, 
Thy  lips  on  my  lips,  as  thine  eyes  in  my  eyes; — 
88 


Since  I've  seen  on  my  raptured  head  shining  briglit 
A  ray  of  thy  star,  alas!  forever  in  haze; 
Since  I've  seen  on  the  wave  of  my  life  falling  light 
A  rose-leaf  torn  from  the  wreath  of  thy  days; — 

I  now  to  the  rapid  years  can  say: 

Pass  on !     Pass  on !  ye  cannot  make  me  old  ! 

Go  ye  hence  with  your  Howcrs  all  withered  away; 

In  my  soul  I've  a  Hower  that  no  other  may  hold! 

Your  wings  in  their  beating  can  nothing  spill 

Of  the  vase  wherein  I  lave,  and  which  is  brimming 

set. 
My  soul  has  more  fire  than  your  ashes  can  kill! 
My   heart   has   more   love  than   yon   can   make   me 

forget ! 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

RONDEL 

By  Charles  d'Orleans  (1391-1465) 

The  weather  casts  his  cloak  aside, 

Of  wind  and  ice  and  rain,  pardie! 

And  dons  a  gown  of  broidery. 

With  sunlight  brilliant,  golden-dyed. 

All   beasts  and   birdlets  pied 

Their  jargon  sing,  and  cry  with   glee; 

The  weather  casts  his  cloak  aside. 

Of  wind  and  ice  and  rain,  pardie! 

Fount,  brook,  and  river  wide 

Wear  in  joyous  liverj' 

Drops  of  silver,  as  jewelry: 

Each  garbs  himself  anew  with  pride. 

The  weather  casts  his  cloak  aside. 

Of  wind  and  ice  and   rain,  pardie! 

L.  B.  T.  K. 


89 


TWO  POEMS 

By    Pierre    de    Ronsard 

CASSANDRA 

Sweetheart,  let  us  see  if  the  rose, 
Which  this  morning  did  unclose 
Its  heart   to  the  sun's  golden   shine. 
At  this  evening  hour  yet  holds 
Of   its   royal   robe   the   folds, 
And  its  tint,  that  rivals  thine. 

Ah,  see  in  what  short  space. 
Sweetheart,  it  has  beneath  its  place, 
Alas,   its  fallen  beauty  shed! 
Oh,  Nature!  thou  dost  unkindly  give. 
That  such  a  Hower  may  only  live 
From  morn  till  daylight  fled! 

Then,  if  thou'lt  believe  me,  sweet, 
While  yet  the  blossoms  greet 
Thee  of  Life's  verdant  May, — 
Enjoy,  enjoy  thy  youth, 
Before  old   age,   forsooth. 
Thy  beauty  plucks  away! 

L.  B.  T  K. 

TO  A  HAWTHORN 

Fair  hawthorn,   green   bowering. 

Flowering, 
The  length  of  this  shore's  incline, 
Thou'rt  wreathed  to  the  vtxy  tip 

In  close  grip 
By  a  wild  grape-vine. 

Two   squadrons  of   red   ants, 
Militants, 
90 


'Twixt  thy  roots  in  ambush  lurk; 
All  its  length  in  evcr>-  hole 

Of   thy   bole 
Busy  bees  are  at  work. 

The  sweet  sonpster  frail, 

Nightingale, 
With  his  dainty  mate  so  dear, 
When  the  time  for  love  compels, 

Comes  and  dwells 
In  thy  branches  ever>'  year. 

Lined   with  wool,  he  builds  his  nest 

In  thy  crest, 
And  with  finest  silk  made  soft, 
Where  will  hatch  his  babies  wee, 

Who  shall  be 
Of  my  hands  a  prize  aloft. 

Then  live,  fair  hawthorn  tree, 

Endlessly, 
And  may  never  thunder's  might, 
Or  the  axe.  or  time  unkind, 

Or  the  wind, 
Prone  on  the  earth  thee  smite! 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

BALLADE 

By  Francois  I'illon   {Written  for  His  Mother) 

Lady  of  Heaven,  Earth's  regent, 
Empress  of  th'  infernal  state, 
Receive  thou  me.  a  Christian  reverent, 
That  I  be  one  by  thee  nominate; — 
This  natheless  that  I  am  not  adequate. 
The  gifts  thou  giv'st  my  lady  and  mistress. 
Are  far  too  great  for  my  great  sinfulness. 
Without  which  gifts  no  soul  may  e'en  try 

91 


To  win  to  heaven,  and  I'm  no  juggleress. 
In  this  faith  I'm  fain  to  live  and  die. 

To  thy  Son  commend  his  penitent: 
That  by  him  my  sins  be  dissipate. 
Give  pardon  as  to  th'  Eg^^ptian  lent. 
Or  as  the  clerk  Theophilus,  whose  fate 
Moved  thee  to  pardon  him,  compassionate, 
Although  he  with  the  devil  did  transgress. 
Preserve  me  thou,  that  I  make  no  cesse ; 
Virgin,  yet  I  beg  thee  purify 
Me  with  thy  sacramental  holiness. 
In  this  faith  I'm  fain  to  live  and  die. 

I  am  a  woman,  poor  and  bent, 

Nor  nothing  know,  nor  read  can  I ; 

Lo,  in  the  minster  where  to  prayer  I  went, 

Paradise  painted,  with  its  harps  I  spy. 

And  Hell,  where  all  the  damned  do  boil  and  fry: 

One  gives  me  fear,  the  other  joy's  excess. 

This  joy  give  me  to  have,  high  Goddess, 

To  whom  all  sinners  must  apply, 

Fill  me  with  faith,  without  feint  or  idless; 

In  this  faith  I'm  fain  to  live  and  die. 

Envoi 

You  bore,  O  Virgin,  high  princess, 

Jesus  our  King,  who  has  nor  end  nor  cesse. 

The  Might}'  One,  taking  our  feebleness, 

Came  down  from  heaven  us  to  fortify, 

Offered  to  death  his  beauteous  youthfulness ; 

He  is  our  Lord,  him  I  confess. 

In  this  faith  I'm  fain  to  live  and  die. 

L.  B.  T.  K. 


92 


THE  INCONSTANT  SHEPHERDESS 

By   Philippe   Dcspnrtcs 

Rosette,   \vc  did   briefly   part, 
And  you  got  you  a  brand-new  beau  ; 
And  i,  knowing  your  fickle  heart, 
Did  mine  on  another  bestow. 
Now,  rU  never  more  be  swayed, 
Or  by  beauty  easily  bent ; 
We   shall   see,   O   fickle   maid. 
Of  us  two,  which  first  will    repent. 

While  so  many  a  tear  I  shed, 
My  absence  deploring,  you, 
By  force  of  habit  led, 
Were  caressing  a  lover  new. 
Oh,  never  was  weathervane  yet 
By  the  wind  so  swift  veering  sent ; 
We'll  see.  shepherdess  Rosette, 
Of  us  tAvo,  which  first  will   repent. 

Where  are  all  your  promises  vowed, 
And  the  tears  that  at  parting  you  shed? 
Is  it  true  that  your  plaint  so  loud 
From  an   inconstant  heart  was  said? 
Gods!  in  falsehood  you  surpass! 
Trust  in  you  is  detriment. 
We  shall  see,  my  flighty  lass, 
Of  us  two,  which  first  will  repent. 

The  lover  who's  taken  my  place 
Cannot  love  you  as  well  as  I ; 
And  she  that  I  love  in  grace, 
Tnith  and  beauty,  passes  you  by. 
Then  guard  your  new  friendship  well; 
My  love  will  be  permanent. 


93 


And  so  at  last  we  can  tell 

Of  us  two  which  first  will  repent. 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

THREE  POEMS 

By  Marcelline  Desbordes  Valmore 

THE  ROSES  OF  SAADI 

I  was  going  to  bring  thee  some  roses  this  morn, 

But  so  many  I  took  in  the  girdle  I'd  worn, 

That    its    knots,    too    tight-drawn,    could   not   hold 

them  for  thee. 
The  knots,  they  did  burst,  and  the  roses,  caught 
By  the  wind,  in  its  rush  to  the  sea  were  brought ; 
They  have  followed  the  tide,  and  ne'er  will  return 

to  me. 

The  wave  by  them  was  reddened  and  seemed  afire; 
To-night  their  odor  clings  jTt  to  my  attire — 
Inhale  then  on  me  their  fragrant  memory! 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

A  WOMAN'S  PRAYER 

My   sainted    love!      My    duty   dear! 

If  God  would  grant  to  see  thee  here. 

If  thy  lodging  were  poor  and  drear, 

Too  tender  for  fear  to  constrain, 

And  bearing  my  amorous  chain. 

Dost  know  who  would  happiness  gain  ? 

'Tis  I !     Forgiving  all  wrongs. 

The  wild-birds'  myriad  throngs 

Would  have  nor  my  wings  nor  my  songs! 

To  bring  thee  back  happiness'  tide. 
Without  hate  or  fear,  or  guide, 
I'd  go  next  thy  heart  to  abide, 

94 


Or  die  of  joy  at  thy  door. 

If  to  thee  God  would  me  restore, 

To  live  or  die  for  thee,  what  more? 

But  no!  thy  love  to  requite, 

I    would    not  quit   the   light 

Till  thy  arms  had  clasped  me  tip;ht! 

'Tis  a  dream!     But  such  appear 
To  ease  the  way  so  long  and  drear. 
'Tis  my  heart  that  beats;  'tis  here; 
It  mounts,  like  a  flame,  to  thee! 
Share  this  dream,  oh  my  soul,  with  me! 
'Tis  a  woman's  prayer,  dost  see! 
'Tis  my  sigh  in  this  sad  place, 
'Tis  heaven  since  our  last  embrace; 
'Tis  mv  belief  in  God's  sweet  grace! 

L.  B.  T.  K. 

SEPARATION 

Do  not  write!     I  am  sad,  and  to  d\e  I  am  fain, 
Fair  summer,  without  thee,  is  love  in  gloom. 
I've  closed  my  arms  that  cannot  thee  attain  ; 
And   to  knock  at  my  heart  is  to  knock  at  a  tomb. 
Do    not    write ! 

Do  not  write!     Let  us  learn  by  ourselves  to  die; 
But  of  God — of  thyself,  ask  what  love  I  thee  bore. 
From  the  depth  of  thy  silence  to  hear  thy  love  give 

reply. 
Is  to  hear  of  the  heaven  I  ma>'  enter  no  more! 
Do  not  write! 

Do  not  write!     I  am  afraid  of  thee;  I  fear  to  think; 
Memor>'  holdeth  thy  voice,  that,  calling  oft  I  hear. 
Do  not  show  fresh  water  to  him  who  may  not  drink. 
A  living  portrait  is,  thy  writing  dear. 
Do  not  write! 


95 


Do  not  write  those  three  words  that  I  dare  not  see, 
It  seems  that  thy  voice  spreads  them  over  my  heart, 
That  through  thy  smile  they  are  shining  on  me, 
It  seems  that  a  kiss  prints  them  deep  on  my  heart. 
Do  not  write! 

L.  B.  T.  K 

WHAT  THE  SWALLOWS  SAY 

By    Theophile  Gautier 

Now  more  than  one  dry  leaf 

Lies  on  the  yellowed  lawn  ; 

The   breeze   is   fresh   at   morn   and   eve, 

Alas!  the  summer  days  are  gone. 

We  see  the  flowers  blooming  yet, 
The  latest  that  the  gardens  hold ; 
The  dahlia  wears  its  rosette, 
And  its  close  cap  the  marigold. 

The  rain  makes  bubbles  in  the  lakes, 
The  swallows  on  the  roof-tree  near 
Each  of  his  fellows  council  takes. 
For  here  is  winter,  cold  is  here. 

By  hundreds  they  assemble  there, 
Foregathering,  ready  to  depart. 
Says  one:     "Oh,  in  Athens  fair 
'Tis  fine  on  the  old  rampart! 

Every  year  I  go  there  and  I  build 
In  the  frieze  of  the  Parthenon ; 
My  house  in   the  cornice  filled 
The  cannon's  shot-hole  yon." 

Another  says:     "My  journey  leads 
To  the  ceiling  of  a  Smyrna  cafe. 
The  Hadjis  count  their  amber  beads 
On  the  threshold,  warmed  by  a  ray. 
96 


I    come    and    go,    accustomed    c'''^'^^ " 
To  the  pallid  vapors  of  chibooks, 
And  through  the  waves  of  smoke  upblovvn 
I  graze  the  turbans  and  tarbooks." 

Now  this  one:     "I  inhabit  a  triglyph 
On  a  temple's  front  at  Baal  beck, 
There  I  hang  with  claws  bent  stiff 
At  my  wide-mouthed  infants'  beck." 

Now  that:     "Here's  my  address — 
At   Rhodes,   the   Cavaliers'   high  hall; 
Each  winter  there  my  home  I  dress 
On   top   of   a   black   pillar   tall." 

The  fifth:     "I  stay  my  flight. 
For  age  now  makes  me  heavy  fly, 
At  Malta's  terrace  white 
Between  blue  sea  and   bluer  sky." 

The  sixth:     "Oh.  fair  is  the  day 
Up  in  Cairo''  ^lim  minaret! 
I  wall  up  the  fretwork  of  clay, 
And  my  winter  quarters  get." 

"At  the  second  cataract," 

Says  the  last,  "my  nest  doth  cling; 

I've  marked   the  spot  exact, 

In  the  ps^nth  of  a  granite  king." 

Then  all:     "How  many  miles  shall  we 
To-morrow  reel  off  in  our  flight — 
Brown  plains,  white  peaks,  blue  sea. 
And  shores  with  foam  laced  white!" 

With  cries  and  beating  wings 
On  the  cornice  and  its  narrow  crown, 
The  air  with   swallow  chatter   rings. 
As  they  see  the  woods  grow  rusty  brown. 

97 


I  understand  what  they  say, 

For  the  poet  too,  is  a  bird ; 

But,  captive,  he  his  flight  must  stay, 

By  an  invisible  net  deterred. 

Oh,  for  wings!  for  wings!  for  wings! 
That   I    might   join    the   swallows'    flight 
To  the  land  whereof  the  poet  sings, 
To  springtime  green  and  gold  sunlight! 

L.  B.  T.  K. 


98 


FROM  THE  ALLEMANNIC  POEMS  OF 
JOHANN  PETER  HEBEL 


JACK  AND  MAGGIE 

There's  only  one  I'm  after, 

And  she's  the  one,-  I  vow ! 
If  she  was  here,  and  standin'  by, 
She  is  a  gal  so  neat  and  spry. 
So   neat   and   spry, 

I'd  be  in  glor>'  now! 

It's  so, — I'm  hankerin'  for  her, 

And  want  to  have  her,  too. 
Her  temper's  always  gay  and  bright, 
Her  face  like  posies  red  and  white. 
Both   red   and   white. 

And   eyes   like  posies  blue. 

And  when  I  see  her  comin', 

My  face  gits  red  at  once; 
My  heart   feels  chokin'-like  and  weak. 
And  drops  o'  sweat  run  down  my  cheek. 
Yes,    down    my   cheek, — 

Confound   me   for  a  dunce! 

She  spoke  so  kind,  last  Tuesday, 

When  at  the  well  we  met: 
"Jack,  give  a  lift!     What  ails  you?     Say! 
I  see  that  somethin'   's  wrong  to-day. 
What's  wrong  to-day?" 

No.    that    I   can't    forget! 

I  know  I'd  ought  to  tell  her. 

And   wish   I'd   told  her  then ; 
And  if  I  was  n't  poor  and  low. 
And  sayin'  it  did  n't  choke  me  so, 
(It  chokes  me  so,) 
I'd  find  a  chance  again. 

Well,  up  and  of?  I'm  goin': 
lOl 


She's   in   the   field   below: 
I'll  tty  and  let  her  know  my  mind; 
And  if  her  answer  is  n't  kind, 
If  't  is  n't  kind, 

I'll  join  the  ranks,  and  go! 

I'm  but  a  poor  young  fellow, 

Yes,  poor  enough,  no  doubt: 
But  ha'n't,  thank  God,  done  nothin'  wrong. 
And  be  a  man  as  stout  and  strong, 
As  stout  and  strong. 

As  any  roundabout. 

What's  rustlin'  in  the  bushes? 

I  see  a  movin'  stalk: 
The  leaves  is  openin':  there's  a  dress! 

0  Lord,  forbid  it!  but  I  guess — 

I  guess — I  guess 
Somebody's  heard  me  talk! 

"Ha!  here  I  am!  you've  got  me! 

So  keep  me,  if  you  can ! 
I've  guessed   it  ever  since  last  Fall, 
And  Tuesday  morn  I   saw  it  all, 
I  saw  it  all ! 

Speak  out,  then,  like  a  .man! 

"Though  rich  you  a'n't  in  money, 

Nor  rich  in  goods  to  sell, 
An  honest  heart  is  more  than  gold. 
And  hands  you've  got  for  field  and  fold, 
For  house  and  fold. 

And — Jack — I  love  you  well!" 

"O  Maggie,  say  it  over! 
O  Maggie,  is  it  so? 

1  could  n't  longer  bear  the  doubt: 

'Twas   hell, — but   now   you've   drawed    me   out, 
You've  drawed  me  out! 
And  will  I?     Wont  I,  though?" 
1 02 


THE  MEADOW 

{"Dif  If'itsf,  xhv  name  uf  a  inountaiii-strcam, 
which,  rising  in  the  Feldberg,  the  highest  peak  of 
the  iilack  Forest.  Hows  past  Hauseii  ...  on 
its  way  to  the  Rhine.     An  extract  from  the  poem.") 

Beautiful  "Meadow,"  daughter  o'  Feldberg,  I  wel- 
come and  greet  you. 
Listen:     I  am  going  to  sing  a  song,  and  all  In  y'r 

honor, 
Makin'   a  music  beside  ye,   follerin'   wherever  you 

wander. 
Born  unbeknown  in  the  rocky,  hidden  heart  o'  the 

mountain. 
Suckled    o'    clouds   and    fogs,    and    weaned    by    the 

waters  o'   heaven, 
There    you    slep'    like    a    babblin'    baby,    a-kep'    in 

the  bed-room, 
Secret,    and    tenderly    cared-for:    and    eye    o'    man 

never  saw  you, — 
Never  peeked  through  a  key-hole  and  saw  my  little 

girl  sleep  in' 
Sound  in  her  chamber  o'  crystal,  rocked  in  her  cradle 

o'  silver. 
Neither   an   ear  o'   man   ever  listened   to  hear  her 

a-breathin', 
No,  nor  her  voice  all  alone  to  herself  a-laughin'  or 

cryin'. 
Only  the  close  little  spirits  that  know  every  passage 

and  entrance. 
In  and  out  dodgin',  they  brought  ye  up  and  teached 

ye  to   toddle, 
Gav'  you  a  cheerful  natur',  and  learnt  you  how  to 

be  useful : 
Yet,  and  their  words  did  n't  go  into  f)ne  ear  and  out 

at  the  t'other. 
Stand  on  your  slippery  feet  as  soon  as  maybe,  and 

use  'em, 

103 


That  you  do,  as  you  slyly  creep  from  your  chamber 

o'  crystal 
Out  o'   doors,   barefoot,  and  squint  up   to  heaven, 

mischievously  smilin'. 
Oh,  but  you're  pretty,  my  darlin',  y'r  eyes  have  a 

beautiful  sparkle! 
Is  n't  it  nice,  out  o'   doors?  you  did  n't  guess   't 

vv^as  so  pleasant? 
Listen,  the  leaves  is  rustlin',  and  listen,  the  birdies 

a-singin' ! 
"Yes,"  says  you,  "but  I'm  goin'  furder,  and  can't 

stay  to  hear  'm : 
Pleasant,  truly,  's  my  way,  and  more  so  the  furder 

I  travel." 

Only  see  how^  spry  my  little  one  is  at  her  jumpin' ! 
"Ketch  me!"  she  shouts,  in  her  fun, — "if  you  w^ant 

me,  foUer  and  ketch  me!" 
Every  minute  she  turns  and  jumps  in  another  direc- 
tion. 
There,  you'll  fall  from  the  bank!     You  see,  she's 

done  it:     I  said  so. 
Did  n't  I  say  it?    And  now  she  wobbles  furder  and 

furder, 
Creepin'   along  on   all-fours,   then   off  on   her  legs 

she's  a-toddlin', — 
Slips   in   the  bushes, — "Hunt  me!" — and   there  on 

a  sudden,  she  peeks  out. 
Wait,  I'm  a-comin'!     Back  o'  the  trees  I  hear  her 

a  callin':  ' 

"Guess  where  I   am!"  she's  whims  of  her  own,  a 

plenty,  and  keeps  'em. 
But,  as  you  go,  you're  growin'  han'somer,  bigger, 

and  stronger. 
Where  the  breath  o'  y'r  breathin'  falls,  the  meadows 

is  greener. 
Fresher  o'  color,  right  and  left,  and  the  weeds  and 

the  grasses 
Sprout  up  as  juici  as  can  be,  and  posies  o'  loveliest 

colors 

104 


Blossom  as  brif^htly  as  wink,  and  bees  come  and 
suck  'em. 

Water-wagtails  come  tiltin', — and,  look!  there's  the 
geese  o'  the  village, 

All  are  a-comin'  to  see  you,  and  all  want  to  give 
you  a  welcome ; 

Yes,  and  you're  kind  o'  heart,  and  you  prattle  to 
all  of  'em  kindly: 

"Come,  you  well-behaved  creeturs,  eat  and  drink 
what  I  bring  you, — 

I  mu'^t  be  off  and  away:  God  bless  you,  well-be- 
haved creetur's!" 

THE   CONTENTED  FARMER 

I  guess  I'll  take  my  pouch,  and  fill 
My  pipe  just  once, — yes.  that  I  will! 
Turn  out  my  plough,  and  home'ards  go: 
Buck  things,  enough's  been  done,  I  know. 

Why,  when  the  Emperor's  council's  done, 
And  he  can  hunt,  and  have  his  fun, 
He  stops.   I   guess,  at  any  tree. 
And  fills  his  pipe  as  well  as  me. 

But  smokin'  does  him  little  good: 
He  can't  have  all  things  as  he  would. 
His  crown's  a  precious  weight,  at  that: 
It  is  n't  like  my  old  straw  hat. 

He  gets  a  deal  o'  tin,  no  doubt, 
But  all  the  more  he  pays  it  out; 
And  ever>wheres  they  beg  and  cry 
Heaps  more  than  he  can  satisfy. 

And  when,  to  see  that  nothin's  wrong, 
He  plagues  hisself  the  whole  day  long, 


105 


And  thinks,  "I  guess  I've  fixed  it  now," 
Nobody   thanks   hini   anyhow. 

And  so  when  in  his  bloody  clo'es 
The  Gineral  out  o'  battle  goes, 
He  takes  his  pouch,  too,  I'll  agree, 
And  fills  his  pipe  as  well  as  me. 

But  in  the  wild  and  dreadful  fight. 
His  pipe  don't  taste  ezackly  right: 
He's  galloped  here  and  galloped  there, 
And  things  a'n't  pleasant  anjavhere. 

And  sich  a  cursin' :    "Thunder!"  "Hell!" 
And  "Devil!"  (worse  nor  I  can  tell)  : 
His  grannydiers  in  blood  lay  down. 
And  yonder  smokes  a  burnin'  town. 

And  when,  a-travelin'  to  the  fairs. 
The   merchant   goes   with    all   his   wares, 
He  takes  a  pouch  o'  the  best,  I  guess, 
And  fills  and  snaokes  his  pipe,  no  less. 

Poor  devil,  't  is  n't  good  for  you! 
With  all  y'r  gold,  you've  trouble  too. 
Twice  two  is  four,  if  stocks'U  rise: 
I  see  the  figgers  in  your  eyes. 

It's  hurri%  worry,  tare  and  tret; 
Ye  ha'n't  enough,  the  more  ye  get, — 
And  could  n't  use  it,  if  ye  had : 
No  wonder  that  y'r  pipe  tastes  bad ! 

But  good,  thank  God  !  and  wholesome's  mine 
The  bottom-wheat  is  growin'   fine, 
And  God,  o'  mornin's,  sends  the  dew, 
And  sends  his  breath  o'  blessing  too. 

And  home,  there's  Nancy  bustlin'  round : 
The  supper's  ready.  I'll  be  bound, 
1 06 


And  younpstcrs  waitin'.     I.onl!  I   vow, 
I  (luiino  w  liich  is  smartest  now. 

Mv  pipe  tastes  pooil ;  the  reason's  plain: 
(I  .miess  I'll  fill  it  onee  a^^ain) 
With  cheerful  heart,  and  jolly  mood. 
And  j^oin'  home,  all  things  is  good. 

THE  Gl  IDE-POST 

D'ye  know  the  road  to  th'  bar'l  o'  flour? 

At  break  o'  day  let  down  the  bars, 
And  plough  y'r  wheat-field,  hour  by  hour, 

Till  sundown, — yes,  till  shine  o'  stars. 

\'ou  peg  away,  the  livelong  day. 
Nor  loaf  about,  nor  gape  around  ; 

And  that's  the  road  to  the  thrashin'-floor, 
And    into   the   kitchen,    I'll   be   bound! 

D'ye  know  the  road  where  dollars  lay? 

Follow  the  red  cents  here  and  there; 
For  if  a  man  leave<;  them,  I  guess, 

He  won't  find  dollars  anywhere. 

D'\e  know   the   road   to  Sunday's  rest? 

Jist  don't  o'  week  days  be  afeard  ; 
In  field  and  workshop  do  y'r  best, 

And  Sunda\   comes  itself,  I've  heerd. 

On  Saturdays  it's  not  fur  off, 

And  brings  a  basketfvd  o'  cheer, — 

A  roast,  and  lots  o'  garden-stuff. 
And,  like  as  not,  a  jug  o'  beer! 

D'ye  know  the  road  to  poverty? 

Turn  in  at  any  tavern-sign: 
Turn  in, — it's  temptin'  as  can  be: 

There's  bran'-new  cards  and   liquor   fine. 
107 


In  the  last  tavern  there's  a  sack, 

And,  when  the  cash  y'r  pocket  quits, 

Just  hang  the  wallet  on  y'r  back, — 
You  vagabond!  see  how  it  fits! 

D'ye  know  what  road  to  honor  leads, 
And  good  old  age? — a  lovely  sight! 

By  ways  o'  temperance,  honest  deeds. 
And  tryin'  to  do  y'r  dooty  right. 

And  when  the  road  forks,  any  side. 
And  you're  in  doubt  which  one  it  is. 

Stand  still,  and  let  y'r  conscience  guide: 
Thank  God,  it  can't  lead  much  amiss! 

And  now,  the  road  to  church-yard  gate 

You  need  n't  ask!  Go  anywhere! 
For,  whether  roundabout  or  straight, 

All  roads,  at  last,  '11  bring  you  there. 

Go,  fearin'  God,  but  lovin'  more! — 
I've  tried  to  be  an  honest  guide, — 

You'll  find  the  grave  has  got  a  door. 
And  somethin'  for  you  t'other  side. 

THE  GHOST'S  VISIT  ON  THE  FELDBERG 

Hark  ye,  fellows  o'  Todtnau,  if  ever  I  told  you  the 

Scythe-Ghost* 
Was  a  spirit  of  Evil,  I've  now  got  a  difFerent  story. 
Out  of  the  town  am  I, — yes,  that  I'll  honestly  own 

to,— 
Related  to  merchants,  at  seven  tables  free  to  take 

pot-luck.  • 


*Dengle-Geist    literally    Whetting-Spirit.      The 
exact  meaning  of  Tengeln  is  to  sharpen  a  scythe  by 
hammering  the  edge  of  the  blade,  which  was  prac- 
ticed before  whetstones  came  in  use. 
1 08 


But  I'm  a  Sunday's  child;  and  wherever  the  ghosts 
at  the  crossroads 

Stand  in  the  air,  in  vaults,  and  cellars,  and  out-o'- 
way  places, — 

Cjuardin'  hidden  money  with  eyes  like  fiery  sauce- 
pans, 

Washin'  with  bitter  tears  the  spot  where  somebody's 
murdered, 

Shovcllin'  the  dirt,  and  scratchin'  it  over  with  nails 
all  so  bloody, — 

Clear  as  day  I  can  see,  when  it  lightens.     Ugh!  how 
they  whimper! 

Also,  whenever  with  beautiful  blue  eyes  the  heaven- 
ly angels, 

Deep  in  the  night,  in  silent,  sleepin'  villages  wander, 

Peekin'  in  at  the  windows,  and  talkin'  together  so 
pleasant. 

Smilin'  one  at  the  t'other,  and  settin'  outside  o'  the 
house-doors. 

So   that   the  pious   folks  shall   take  no  harm   while 
they're  sleepin' : 

Then   ag'in,   when   in  couples  or   threes  they   walk 
in  the  graveyard, 

Talkin'  in  this  like:     "There  a  faithful  mother  is 
layin' ; 

And  here's  a  man  that  was  poor,  but  took  no  ad- 
vantage o'  no  one: 

Take  your  rest,  for  you're  tired, — we'll  waken  ye 
up  when  the  time  comes!" 

Clearly  I  sec  by  the  light  o'  the  stars,  and   I  hear 
them  a-talkin'. 

Many  I  know  by  their  names,  and  speak  to,  when- 
ever I  meet  'em. 

Give  'em  the  time  o'  day.  and  ask  'em,  and  answer 
their  questions. 

"How  do  ye  do?"     "How's  y'r  watch?"     "Praise 
God,  it's  tolerable,  thank  you !" 

Believe  it,  or  not!    Well,  once  on  a  time  my  cousin. 
he  sent  me 

109 


Over   to   Todtnau,   on    business   with   all   sorts   o' 

troublesome  people, 
AVhere  you've  coffee  to  drink,  and  biscuit  they  give 

you  to  soak  in  't. 
"Don't  you  stop  on  the  road,  nor  gabble  whatever 

comes  foremost," 
Hooted  my  cousin  at  startin',   "nor  don't  you  let 

go  o'  your  snuffbox, 
Leavin'  it  round  in  the  tavern,  as  gentlemen  do,  for 

the  next  time." 
Up  and  away  I  went,  and  all  that  my  cousin  he'd 

ordered 
Fairly   and   squarely   I   fixed.     At  the  sign   o'   the 

Eagle  at  Todtnau 
Set  for  a  while;  then,  sure  o'  my  way,  tramped  off 

ag'in  home'ards. 
Nigh  by  the  village,  I  reckoned, — but  found  myself 

climbin'   the  Feldberg, 
Lured  by  the  birdies,  and  down  by  the  brooks  the 

beautiful  posies: 
That's  a  weakness  o'  mine, — I  run  like  a  fool  after 

such   things. 
Now  it  was  dusk  and  the  birdies  hushed  up,  sittin' 

still  on  the  branches. 
Hither  and  yonder  a  starlie  stuck  its  head  through 

the   darkness, 
Peekin'  out,  as  uncertain  whether  the  sun  was  in 

bed   yet, — 
Whether  it  mightn't  come,  and  called  to  the  other 

ones:     "Come  now!" 
Then  I  knowed  I  was  lost,  and  laid  myself  down, 

— I  w^as  weary: 
There,  you  know,   there's  a  hut,   and   I   found   an 

armful  o'  straw  in  't. 
"Here's  a  go!"  I  thinks  to  myself,  "and  I  wish  I 

was  safely 
Cuddled  in  bed  to  home ; — or  't  was  midnight,  and 

some  little  spirit 
Somewhere  popped  out,  as  o'  nights  when  it's  twelve 
no 


they're  accustomed, 
Passin'   the  time  with  me,   friendl),   till   winds  that 

blow  early  o'  mornin's 
Hlow   p)iit   the   heavetil\-   lights,   and    1    see   the   way 

hack,  to  the  village." 
Now,   as   thinkin'   in   this   like,    I    felt   all    over  my 

watch-face, — 
Dark  as  pitch  all  around, — and  felt  w  ith  ni\-  linger 

the  hour-hand, 
Found  it  was  niph  onto  "leven,  and  hauled  my  pipe 

from  my  pocket, 
Thinkin':  "Ma\he  a  bit  of  a  smoke  '11  keep  me  from 

snoozin' :" 
Thunder!   all   of   a  sudden    beside   me   was   two  of 

'em  talkin', 
Like    as    they'd    business    together!      You'd    better 

believe  that  I  listened. 
"Say,  a'n't  I  late  a-comin'?    Because  there  was  over 

in  Mambach, 
r)\in',  a   trirl   with   pains  in   the  bones  and   terrible 

fever: 
Now,  but  she's  easy!     I  held  to  her  mouth  the  drink 

o'  departure. 
So  that  the  sufTcrin'  ceased,  and  softly  lowered  the 

eyelids, 
Sayin':     'Sleep,   and   in   peace, — I'll   waken   thee  up 

when   the  time  comes!' 
Do  me  the  favor,  brother:  fetch  in  the  basin  o'  sil- 
ver 
\Vater  ever  so  little;  my  scythe  as  you  see  must  be 

whetted." 
"Whetted?"  says  I   to  myself,   "and  a  spirit?"  and 

peeked  from  the  window. 
Lo   and    behold,   there  sat  a  youngster   with   wings 

that  was  polden  ; 
White   was   his   mantle,    white,    anrl    his   iiirdle    tlie 

color  o'  roses. 
Fair  and  lovely  to  see,  and  beside  him  two  lijxhts  all 

a  burnin'. 

I II 


"All  the  good  spirits,"  says  I,  "Mr.  Angel,   God 

ha\  e  you  in  keepin' !" 
"Praise   their   Master,   the   Lord,"   said   the   angel; 

"God  thank  you,  as  I  do!" 
"Take  no  offence,  Mr.  Ghost,  and  by  y'r  good  leave 

and  permission, 
Tell  me,  what  have  you  got  for  to  mow?     "Why, 

the  scythe!"  was  his  answer. 
"Yes,"  saj'S  I,  "for  I  see  it;  and  that  is  my  question 

exackly. 
What  you're  goin'  to  do  with  the  scythe?"  "Why," 

to  mow!"  was  his  answer. 
Then  I  ventur'd  to  say:    "And  that  is  my  question 

exackly, 
What  you're  goin'  to  mow,  supposin'  you're  willin' 

to  tell  me." 
"Grass!     And  what  is  your  business  so  late  up  here 

in   the  night-time?" 
"Nothin'  special,"  I  answered;  "I'm  burnin'  a  little 

tobacco. 
Lost  my  way,  or  most  likely  I'd  be  at  the  Eagle,  in 

Todtnau. 
But  to  come  to  the  subject,  supposin'  it  isn't  a  secret, 
Tell  me,  what  do  you  make  o'  the  grass?  "    And  he 

answered  me:  "Fodder!" 
"Don't  understand   it,"  says  I ;  "for  the  Lord  has 

no  cows  up  in  heaven." 
"Not  precisely  a  cow,"  he  remarked,  "but  heifers  and 

asses. 
Seest,   up  j^onder,   the   star?"   and   he   pointed   one 

out  with  his  finger. 
"There's    the    ass    o'    the    Christmas — Child,    and 

Fridolin's  heifers* 


*According  to  an  old  legend  St.  Fridolin  har- 
nessed two  young  heifers  to  a  mighty  fir-tree,  and 
hauled  it  into  the  Rhine,  near  Sackingen,  there- 
by damming  the  river  and  forcing  it  to  take  a  new 
course  on  the  other  side  of  the  town. 


112 


Breathiii'   the  starry  air.  and   waitin'   for  grass  that 

I  bring  'cm : 
Cjra.s>  docs  n't  prow  there,— notliin'  grows  hut  the 

heavenly  raisins, 
Milk  and   honey  a-runnin'   in   rivers,  plenty  as  wa- 
ter: 
But  they're  particular  cattle,— grass  they  must  have 

even'  mornin', 
Mouthful  o'  hay,  and  drink  from  earthly  fountains 

they're  used  to. 
So   for   them    I'm   a-whettin'   my  scythe,   and   soon 

must  me  mowin': 
Would  n't  it  be  worth  while,  if  politely  you'd  offer 

to  help   me?" 
So  the  angel  he  talked,  and  this  way  I  answered  the 

angel : 
"Hark  ye.  this  it  is.  just:  and  I'll  go  with  the  great- 
est o'  pleasure. 
Folks   from   the  town   know   nothin'   about   it:   we 

write  and  we  cipher, 
Reckon  up  money, — that  we  can  do! — and  measure 

and  weigh  out. 
Unload,    and    on-load,   and   eat   and    drink   without 

any  trouble. 
All  that  we  want  for  the  belly,  in  kitchen,  pantry, 

and  cellar. 
Comes  in   lots  through  ever>'  gate,   in   baskets  and 

boxes. 
Runs  in  every  street,  and  cries  at  every  corner: 
'Buy  my  cherries!'  and  'Buy  my  butter!'  and  'Look 

at  my  salad !' 
'Buy   my   onions!'   and    'Here's  your  carrots!'   and 

'Spinage  and  parsley!' 
'Lucifer  matches!     Lucifer  matches!'  'Cabbage  and 

turnips!' 
'Here's  your  umbrellas!'  'Caraway-seed  and  juniper- 
berries  ! 
Cheap  for  cash,  and  all  to  he  traded  for  sugar  and 

coffee !' 

113 


Say,  Mr.  Angel,  didst  ever  drink  coffee?  and  how  do 

you  like  it?" 
"Stop    with    y'r   nonsense!"    then    he   said,    but   he 

could  n't  help  laughin'; 
"No,  we  drink  but  the  heavenly  air,  and  eat  nothin' 

but  raisins, 
Four  on  a  day  o'  the  week,  and  afterwards  five  on 

a  Sunday. 
Come  if  you  want  to  go  with  me,  now,  for  I'm  off 

to  my  mowin', 
Back  o'  Todtnau,  there  on  the  grassy  holt  by  the 

highway." 
"Yes,  Mr.  Angel,   that  will  I   truly,  seein'  you're 

willin' : 
Seems  to  me  that  it's  cooler:  give  me  y'r  scythe  for 

to  carry: 
Here's   a   pipe   and    a   pouch, — you're   welcome    to 

smoke,  if  you  want  to." 
While  I  was  talkin',  "Poohoo!"  cried  the  angel.    A 

fiery  man  stood, 
Quicker  than  lightnin',  beside  me.     "Light  us  the 

way  to  the  village." 
Said  he.     And  truly  before  us  marched,  a-burnin', 

the  Poohoo, 
Over  stock  and  rock,  through  the  bushes,  a  travellin' 

torchlight. 
"Handy,  is  n't  it?"  laughin',  the  angel  said. — "What 

are  ye  doin'? 
Why  do  you  nick  at  y'r  flint?     You  can  light  y'r 

pipe  at  the  Poohoo. 
Use  him  whenever  you   like ;  but   it  seems  to  me 

you're  a-frightened, — 
You,  and  a  Sunday's  child,  as  you  are ;  do  you  think 

he  will  bite  you?" 
"No,  he  ha'n't  bit  me;  but  this  you'll  allow  me  to 

say,  Mr.  Angel, — 
Half-and-half  I  mistrust  him :  besides,  my  tobacco's 

a-burnin', 


114 


That's   a   weakness  o'   mine, — I'm   afeard   o'    them 

fien   creeturs: 
Give  me  seventy  angels,  instead  o'  this  big  burnin' 

devil!" 
"Really,    it's    dreadfle,"    the   angel    says    he,    "that 

men  is  so  silly, 
Fearful  o'  ghosts  and  spectres,  and  skeery  without 

any  reason. 
Two  of  'em  only  is  dangerous,  two  of  'em  hurtful  to 

mankind : 
One  of  'em's  known  by  the  name  o'  Delusion,  and 

Worrj-  the  t'other, 
Him.  Delusion,  's  a  dweller  in  wine:  from  cans  and 

decanters. 
Up  to  the  head  he  rises,  and  turns  your  sense  to  con- 
fusion. 
This  is  the  ghost  that  leads  you  astray  in  forest  and 

highway : 
Undermost,  uppermost,  hither  and  yon  the  ground 

is  a-rollin', 
Bridges  bendin',  and  mountains  movin',  and  every- 
thing double. 
Hark  ye,  keep  out  of  his  way!"     "Aha!"  I  says  to 

the  angel, 
"There  you  prick  me,  but  not  to  the  blood :     I  see 

what  you're  after, 
Sober  am  I,  as  a  judge.     To  be  sure,  I  emptied  my 

tankard 
Once   at    the    Eagle, — once, — and    the   landlord    '11 

tell  you  the  same  thing, 
S'posin'  you    doubt   me.      And    now   pray,   tell    me 

who  is  the  t'other?" 
"Who  is  the  'tother?    Don't  know  without  askin'?" 

answered  the  angel. 
"He's  a  terrible  ghost:  the  Lord  forbid  you  should 

meet  him  I 
When    you    waken    early,    at    four   or    five    in    the 

mornin', 


115 


There  he  stands  a-waitin'  with  burnin'  eyes  at  y'r 

bed-side, 
Gives  you  the  time  o'  day  with  blazin'  switches  and 

pinchers: 
Even   prayin'   don't   help,    nor   help   all   your   Jve 

Marias  J 
When  you  begin  'em,  he  takes  your  jaws  and  claps 

'em  together; 
Look  to  heaven,  he  comes  and  blinds  y'r  eyes  with 

his  ashes; 
Be  you  hungry,  and  eat,  he  pizons  y'r  soup  with  his 

wormwood ; 
Take  you  a  drink  o'  nights,  he  squeezes  gall  in  the 

tankard ; 
Run  like  a  stag,  he  follows  as  close  on  y'r  trail  as  a 

blood-hound ; 
Creep  like  a  shadow,  he  whispers:     'Good!  we  had 

best  take  it  easy' ; 
Kneels  at  y'r  side  at  the  church,  and  sets  at  y'r  side 

in  the  tavern. 
Go    wherever    you    will,    there's    ghosts    a-hoverin' 

round  you. 
Shut  your  eyes  in  y'r  bed,  they  mutter:     'There's 

no  need  o'  hurry; 
By-and-by  you  can  sleep,  but  listen !  we've  somethin' 

to  tell  you: 
Have  you   forgot   how   you   stoled  ?   and   how  you 

cheated  the  orphans? 
Secretly  sinned'  ? — and   this,   and   the  t'other ;   and 

when  they  have  finished, 
Say  it  over  again,  and  you  get  little  good  o'  your 

slumber." 
So   the   angel   he   talked,   and   like   iron   under  the 

hammer. 
Sparkled  and  spirted  the  Poohoo.     "Surely,"  I  says 

to  the  angel, 
"Born  on  a  Sunday  was  I,  and  friendly  with  many 

a  preacher, 


Ii6 


Yet  the  Father  protect  me  from  these!"     Says  he  to 

me,  smih'n' : 
"Keep  y'r  conscience  pure ;  it  is  better  than  crossin' 

and  blessin'. 
Here  we  must  part,  tor  y'r  way  turns  off  and  down 

to  the  village. 
Take   the   Poohoo  along,   but   mind !   put   him   out, 

in   the   meadow, 
Lest  he  should  run  in  the  village,  settin'  hre  to  the 

stables. 
God  be  with  you,  and  keep  you!"     And  then  says 

I :     "Mr.  Angel, 
God,  the  Father,  protect  you !     Be  sure,  when  you 

come  to  the  city, 
Christmas  evenin',  call,  and  I'll  hold  it  an  honor  to 

see  you : 
Raisins  I'll  have  at  your  service,  and  hippocras,  if 

you  like  it. 
Chilly's  the  air,  o'  evenin's,  especially  down  by  the 

river." 
Day  was  breakin'  by  this,  and  right  there  was  Todt- 

nau   before  me! 
Past,  and  onward  to  Basle  I  wandered  i'  the  shade 

and  the  coolness. 
When  into  Mambach  I  come,  they  bore  a  dead  girl 

to  the  grave-yard, 
After    the    Holy    Cross,    and    the    faded    banner   o' 

Heaven, 
With   the   funeral   garlands  upon   her,   with   sobin' 

and  weepin*. 
Ah,  but  she'd  heard  what  he  said !  he'll  waken  her  up 

when  the  time  comes, 
Afterwards,  Tuesday  it  was,  I   got  safely  back  to 

my  cousin ; 
But  it  turned  out  as  he  said, — I'd  somewhere  for- 
gotten  my  snuffbox! 


117 


POEMS  FROM 
THE  MINNESINGERS 


FOUR  POEMS 

Bx    If'olthi-r   von   dtr   Vogelweide 

THE  BLISS  OF  MAY 

{"Maiemionru") 

Would    you   see   how    May   to   May-mc« 

Briglitest  marvels  new; 
Priests,  behold '.—behold  it  laymen, 

What  his  might  can  do! 

He   is   uncontrolled: 
I  know  not  if  magic  it  is; 
When  his  joys  the  world  revisit, 

Then  is  no  one  old. 

Happy  May,  thy  spell  divideth 

All,    but   not   in    hate! 
Every  tree  in  leafage  hideth, 

Nor  the  moorlands  wait. 

Colors  fall   in  showers: 
"I  am  long  and  thou  art  short," 
Thus  in  tields  they  strive  and  sport. 

Clover,  grass  and  Bowers. 

Rosy  month,  why  thus  degrade  thee, 

Let  thy  laughter  be! 
Shame  of  scorn  shall  not  evade  thee. 

After  wounding  me. 

Doest  thou  kindly  so? 
Ah.  lost  hours  that  we  are  proving. 
When  from  lips  that  seem  so  loving 

Such  unlove  should   flow! 

A  MINNE-SONG 

("Remarkable  for    being    written    in    the    dactylic 
measure.") 

Happy  the  moment  when  first  I  beheld  her, 

121 


Conquering  bod}'  and  soul  with  her  beauty; 
Since  when  my  service  the  more  hath  compelled  her 
Still  with  her  kindness  to  fetter  my  duty, 
So  that  from  her  I  can  nevermore  part. 
This  from  her  goodness  and  grace,  and  thereafter 
Her  roseate  mouth,  with  the  charm  of  its  laughter. 

Spirit  and  senses  and  thought  I  have  given 
Unto  the  best  and  the  purest  and  dearest. 

Now  must  the  bliss  be  complete,  as  in  heaven. 
Since  I  have  dared  to  desire  to  be  nearest. 
If  the  world's  blisses  were  dear  to  my  heart, 

'Twas  from  her  goodness  and  grace,  and  thereafter 

Her  roseate  mouth,  with  the  charm  of  its  laughter. 

FROM  THE  GLORIOUS  DAME 

God  was  so  careful  of  her  cheeks ; 
He  spread  such  precious  colors  there, 
That  pure  and  perfect,  either  speaks. 
Here  rosy-red,  there  lily-fair. 
Not  meaning  sin,  will  I  declare 

That  I  more  fain  on  her  would  gaze 

Than  on  the  sky  or  Starry  Bear. 

Ah,  foolish  me,  what  is't  I  praise? 

If  I,  too  fond,  exalt  her  so. 

How  soon  the  lips'  delight  becomes  the  bosom's  woe. 

SPRING  AND  WOMEN 

{The   Opening  Stanzas) 

When  the  blossoms  from  the  grass  are  springing, 
As  they  laughed  to  meet  the  sparkling  sun. 
Early  on  some  lovely  morn  of  May, 
And  all  the  small  birds  on  the  boughs  are  singing 
Best  of  music,  finished  and  again  begun. 
What  other  equal  rapture  can  we  pray? 

122 


It  is  already  half  of  heaven. 
But  should  we  miess  what  other  nii^ht  he  ;:iven, 
So  I  declare,  that,  which  in  my  si^ht 
Still  better  seems,  and  still   would  seem,  had   I   the 

same  ilelij^ht. 

When  a  noble  dame  of  purest  beauty 
\V>1I  attired,  with  even  garnished  tresses, 
L  nto  all.  in  social   habit,  goes. 
Finely  gracious,  yet  subdued  to  duty, 
Whose  impartial   glance  her  state  expresses, 
As  on  the  stars  the  sun  his  radiance  throws! 

I'hcn  let  May  his  bliss  renew  us: 
What  is  there  so  blissful  to  us 
As  her  lips  of  love  to  sec? 
VVe  gaze  upon  the  noble  dame,  and  let  the  blossoms 

be. 

LINES 

By  Conrad  of  If  iiizhurg 

Year-long  will   the  linden 

The  wind  in 

Go  waving, 

^V^hole  a  tempest  sorest 

The  forest 

Is  braving; 

To  wail   the  moorland   through, 

One's  sorrow 

Is  doubled  ; 

Sweetly  love's  pretenses 

IVIy  senses 

Have  troubled. 

THE  FALCON 

By   Ditlhtnar  von  .list 

There  stood  alone  a  lady 
And  waited  on  the  moorland, 
12;; 


And  waited  for  her  lover, 

And  saw  the  falcon  flying. 

"Ah,  happy  falcon  that  thou  art! 

Thou   fliest   where   thou   pleasest; 

Thou  choosest  from  the  forest 

The  tree  which  best  thou  lovest, 

And  thus  have  I  done  also: 

I  chose  a  man  to  be  mine  own. 

In  mine  eyes  the  one  elected. 

And  envied  am  by  fairest  dames. 

Alas,  why  -will  they  not  leave  my  love? 

For  none  of  theirs  I  ever  hankered." 

Fair  art   thou,   joy   of   summer 

The  song  of  birds  is  wholesome 

As  are  its  leaves  unto  the  linden. 

QUATRAIN 

By   Heinrich    von   Morungen 

'Tis  the  way  of  the  nightingale, 
That  when  her  song  is  finished  she  sings  no  more; 

But  the  swallow  as  mate  I  hail, 
Who  neither  for  love  nor  woe,  ceases  her  strain  to 
pour. 

FROM  THE  "TRISTAN"  OF  GOTTFRIED 
OF  STRASSBURG 

{Twelfth   Century) 

[The  scene  of  the  meeting  in  the  spring-time  of 
Prince  Reivalin,  the  father  of  Tristan,  and 
Blancheflopur,  his  mother,  the  sister  of  Mark,  King 
of  Cornwall.] 

The  soft  and  tender  summer  air 
Disturbed  the  summer  idlesse  there, 
And  woke  sweet  industry,  and  fair. 
124 


The  little  wood-birds  singing  clear, 

It  should  be  such  a  joy  to  hear, 

Mlossoms,    grass,   and    leaves   on    trees, 

And  what  the  eye  may  gently  please, 

And  joy  to  noble  hearts  ni;iy  yield. 

Of  that  was  the  sutnnicr-mradows  filled. 

All  one  wished  was  gathered  then 

Of  what  the  May-time  brings  to  men: 

Shade,  when  the  sun  would  sting; 

Lindens  beside  the  spring; 

And  soft,  sweet  winds  that  sent 

Where  Mark's  retainers  went, 

A  fresh  deligiu  to  meet  them: 

And    the   bright   buds   laughed    to   greet   them, 

In  the  dew}'  grass  that  day; 

And  the  green  turf,  the  friend  of  May, 

Wove  from   its  own   loveliness 

So  delightful  a  summer  dress 

That  in  the  guests'  glad  eyes 

'Twas  mirrored  in  fairer  wise. 

The  bloom  of  trees  looked  down  on  men 

So  openly,   sweetly  smiling  then, 

That  heart  and  mind  and  senses  lent 

The  dancing  blood  their  light  content, 

And   forever  made  reply 

In  the  light  of  the  merry  eye. 

All  notes  the  birds  repeat, — 

So   beautiful,   so   sweet. — 

That  unto  heart  and  ear 

So  goodly  'tis  to  hear, 

Rang  there  from  hill   and   dale. 

And   the  blissful   nightingale — 

The  dear,  sweet  birdling  she 

That  ever  sweet  shall  be. 

From  out  the  blossoms  trolled 

So  clear  and  ever-bold. 

That  many  a  noble  heart  that  heard, 

Took  joy  and  hope  from  the  happy  bird. 


125 


GERMAN    POEMS   OF   THREE    SUCCES- 
SIVE CENTURIES 


TROOPER'S  SONG 

{Of  the   Fifteenth   Century) 

Up  and  auay,  good  comrades, 
Ye  gallant  brothers  mine, 
Ride  fast!  it  is  our  purpose 
To  dash  beyond  the  Rhine. 
There  comes  a  fine  fresh  summer 
And    promises   good    store: 
The  longer  'tis,   the  better; 
Up,   whet  your  tuslcs,  old   boar! 
The  pasture  waits  once  more. 

The  summer  it  shall  bring  us 
Good  luck  and  courage  pure: 
Success  for  us  is  easy. 
And  gay  return  is  sure. 
Many   rode  out   before   us 
And  treasure  found  in  store; 
We've  starved  too  long  already; 
Up.  whet  your  tusks,  old  boar! 
The  pasture  waits  once  more. 

Then  be  not  slow  or  timid, 

\  e  troopers  fresh  and  good ! 

We'll   break   through   hedge  and   thicket. 

And  crash  across  the  wood! 

Ours  shall  be  name  and  honor 

As  good  as  any  wore : 

What  others  do.  we'll  do  it: 

Up,  whet  your  tusks,  old  boar! 

The  pasture  waits  once  more. 

HUNTER'S  SONG 

{By  Some  Unknown  Peasant-author;  Sixteenth 
Century) 

A  hunter  hunted  merrily, 
Under  the  leafy  linden-tree; 
129 


His  free,  strong  heart  upbore  him; 

Many  a  beast  he  hunted  down, 

With  his  greyhounds  fast  before  him. 

He    sped    through    vale,    o'er    mountain    cold, 

The  thicket  and  the  bushy  wold. 

And  blew  his  horn  so  clearly; 

But  under  the   bows   his  sweetheart  sat, 

And  looked  on  him  so  dearly. 

Upon  the  ground  his  cloak  he  threw. 
Sat  there,  and  her  beside  him  drew. 
And  said,  her  white  hand  pressing: 
"Well  may'st  thou  fare,  consoler  mine, 
My  one  desire  and  blessing! 

"If  hoar-frost  came,  or  snow  be  seen, 
To  kill  for  us  the  clover  green 
And  the  blossoms  on  the  heather, 
Nor  frost  nor  snow  can  part  the  twain 
Who  love,  and  sit  together!" 

THE   NETTLE-WREATH 

{Folks-song    of    the    Sixteenth    Century.) 

"O  peasant-lad,  let  the  roses  be! 
Not  for  thee  they  blow! 
Thou  wearest  still  the  nettle-weed 
Thy  wreath  of  woe." 

The   nettle-weed   is  bitter  and   sour. 
And  burneth  me: 
But  that  I  lose  my  fairest  love 
Is  my  misery. 

This  I  lament,  and  thence  my  heart 
Is  sad  and  sore: 


130 


God  keep  thee  now,  lost,  lovely  girl! 
1  shall  never  see  thee  more. 

THE  POET  AND  THE  SINGER 

J  Poem  by  Hans  Scichs,  the  " Masttrsinger."  in  his 
Own  "Silver  Measure."  Dated  1517. 

I 

I  like  a  fountain  flowing 

Beside  a  cavern,  showing 

No  token,  in  its  going, 

Of  whence  its  waters  came. 

Itself  must  fill  forever, 

And  by  its  own  endeavor, 

The  urn  of  its  light  river: 

The  cave   is   not   the  same. 

When  from  the  sun's  increasing  heat. 

In  days  of  summertime. 

The  cave  is  neither  fresh  nor  sweet, 

But  smells  of  mould  and  slime. 

And  dries,  and  groweth  rank  and  green ; 

Then  doth  the  fount  itself  keep  clean 

From  out   its  hidden  sources, — 

Conquers  the  sun's  hot  forces 

In   all   its  cr>'Stal  courses, 

And  grows  not  foul  nor  dull. 

II 

That  fountain  I  compare  to 
The  poet,  who  does  swear  to 
The  poetn,-  he's  heir  to; 
And  honors  art  the  more. 
But  he — I  say  with  sorrow — 
Is  a  wretched  singer  thorough. 
Who  all  his  songs  must  borrow 


131 


From  what  was  sung  before. 

For  when  new  art  is  born  again, 

Better  than  ancient  tune, 

The  singer's  song  is  all  in  vain : 

He  shall  be  silenced  soon : 

No  effort  of  his  own  avails 

To  follow  on  those  fresher  trails, 

'Gainst  him  whose  fancies  bear  us, — 

Whose  heart  and  art  declare  us. 

That  lightly  he  can  spare  us 

A  new  song  every  hour. 

Ill 

Our  art,  of  truth  the  mirror, 

Should  daily  be  the  clearer 

Of  coarseness  and  of  error. 

That   erewhile   clouded    it. 

And  song — there's  nothing  surer! — 

Should  day  by  day  be  purer, 

And  nobler  and  securer. 

Made  by  the  poet's  wit. 

Therefore  a  crown  of  red-gold  sheen 

The  poet  should  receive ; 

The  singer  but  a  garland  green. 

That  ye  this  truth  believe: 

Lieth  the  singer  cold  and  dead. 

His  art  with  him  hath  perished; 

But  when  the  poet  dieth 

His  wot  that  end  denieth, 

And  liveth  still,  and  flieth 

To  many  a  distant  land. 

A  HYMN  BY  PAUL  FLEMING 

{Seventeenth  Century) 

My  soul,  no  dark  depression  borrow 
From  sorrow! 

132 


Be  still ! 
As  God  disposeth  now, 
Be  cheerful  thou, 

My  will ! 

To-day,    why    wilt   thou    trouble   borrow, 
For  to-morrow? 

(^ne   alone 
Careth  for  all  that  be: 
He'll   give  to  thee 
Thine    own ! 

Stand,  then,  whatever's  undertaken, 
Unshaken ! 

Lift  up  thy  breast ! 
What  so  thy  God  ordains, 
Is  and  remains 
The  best! 

THE  SONNET  PAUL  FLEMING  WROTE 
ON  HIS  DEATHBED 

In  art,  wealth,  standing,  was  I  strong  and  free; 
Of  honored  parents,  fortune's  chosen  son, 
Free,  and  mine  own,  and  mine  own  substance  won ; 
I  woke  far  echoes, — no  one  sang  like  me; 
Praised  for  my  travels,  toiling  cheerfully, 
Young,  watchful,  eager, — named  for  what  I've  done. 
Till  the  last  sands  of  earthly  time  be  nm. 
Thi'^,  German   Muses,  was  your  legacy! 
God,  Father,  Dearest,  Friends,  is  my  worth  so? 
I  say  good  night,  and  now  must  disappear: 
The  black  grave  waits,  all  else  is  finished  here: 
WTiat  Death  may  do,  that  do  he  to  his  foe! 
To  yield  my  breath  shall  bring  me  little  strife: 
There's  naught  of  life  in  me  that  less  lives  than  mv 
life! 


133 


THE  HASTE  OF  LOVE 

By   Martin    Opitz    (Seventeenth    Century) 

Ah,  sweetheart,  let  us  hurry! 

We  still  have  time. 
Delaying    thus   we    bury 

Our  mutual  prime. 

Beauty's  bright  gift  shall  perish 

As  leaves  grow  sere: 
All  that  we  have  and  cherish 

Shall  disappear. 

The  cheek  of  roses  fadeth, 

Gray  grows  the  head ; 
And  fire  the  eyes  evadeth 

And  passion's  dead. 

The  mouth,   love's  honeyed   winner, 

Is   formless,   cold; 
The  hand,  like  snow,  gets  thinner, 

And  thou  art  old! 

So  let  us  taste  the  pleasure 

That  youth  endears. 
Ere  we  are  called,  to  measure 

The  flying  years! 

Give,  as  thou  lov'st  and  livest, 

Thy  love  to  me, 
Even    though,    in    what   thou    givest, 

My  loss  should  be! 


134 


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